The Wicked Witch in the West
by Argonaut57
Summary: Life is complicated enough for detective Nick Burkhardt without someone randomly killing a harmless Maushertz. Matters are not improved by the arrival of two British cops in Portland. DCI Harry Potter and DI Ron Weasley are not, Nick feels, quite what they seem!
1. Chapter 1

**The Wicked Witch in the West**

"_We don't know what she's up to, but it won't be good!"_

Things were still complicated with Juliette, so Nick Burkhardt was glad that breakfast in the diner had become a regular weekly ritual. Just to sit and generally chat with Monroe and Rosalee was a very pleasant thing. It helped, of course, that they knew what he was and he knew what they were. Kept everything relaxed.

Still, there was one odd occurrence today. Probably nothing, but Nick had a cops' mindset - a nose for things that weren't quite right. They'd finished eating, and were just lingering over coffee. Monroe was telling Nick, with great enthusiasm, about a new job he had on – repairing and reconditioning an 18th Century English long-case clock. Nick was kind of paying attention, knowing how much this sort of thing meant to his friend, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

Rosalee was sitting opposite Nick, next to Monroe, facing the front of the diner and half-listening to the talk with an indulgent smile. Then, suddenly, her eyes widened, just a fraction. As a species, _Fuchsbauen_ tend to live by their wits, and have pretty good poker-faces, but Nick was a Grimm, and his perceptions were quicker than most. Before he could say anything, however, he heard the door of the diner open. It was at that moment that Rosalee, with uncharacteristic clumsiness, managed to knock her cellphone off the table.

"Oh, dammit!" She muttered.

"I got it!" Monroe said amiably, diving under the table to retrieve the errant technology.

Rosalees' move was perfectly timed - if it was a move – because it was just then that the new customers walked past their table. Two men, one about six feet, with a wiry build and untidy black hair, the other a good four inches taller than his companion, powerfully built and with fiery red hair.

It was then that Nick realised that Rosalee had done something quite deliberate. As the two men passed close he felt something he'd never felt before. _Felt_, not _saw_. Something like what he'd felt years ago in school, when his science teacher had him touch the poles of a Van der Graaf generator. Like these guys were carrying a massive charge of static electricity. Only not.

He locked eyes with Rosalee. She gave him a tiny shake of her head – knew he'd seen or felt something but didn't want him to talk about it. OK, he'd leave it for now, he owed her that much trust, more in fact. He slid his eyes toward the door -the two newcomers were at the counter – and she nodded.

Monroe re-emerged, holding the cell up in triumph. Rosalee thanked him, then said:

"Nick, we'd better get going. I've got a store to open and Monroe here needs to grab his tools and go start work on that precious clock!"

Nick nodded. "My turn to get the tab, anyway. I'll finish this and get to work myself. Later."

Monroe seemed a little put out by the turn of events, but Rosalee steered him firmly out of the door. Nick turned his attention to the newcomers. They'd just got their coffees, and the red-headed one was asking:

"What's in that cookie?"

"Chocolate chip and macadamia." He was told.

"I'll have a go at that, then." He replied.

As this was going on, the other man had turned to look around the diner. He had a strong-boned face, a little on the thin side, metal-framed glasses and an odd, jagged scar on his forehead. As he swept his gaze across the room, his eyes caught Nicks'. They were a vivid green, piercing and carried a sense of power like nothing Nick had felt before. The contact was fleeting, the stranger gave Nick a vague nod and turned back to his companion.

"Hermione'd have a pink fit if she saw you eating something like that at this time of the morning!" He pointed out.

The redhead snorted. "If 'Mione had her way, I'd be living on salad and chicken breast! Mum all but had a stand-up row with her about getting some decent food in the house!" He didn't sound too serious. "When do we have to be there?" He went on.

"Couple of hours, yet." The dark one replied. "we can have a look round if you like."

"OK, but you drive, mate. This wrong side of the road lark does my head in! I don't like the automatic transmission, either."

Definitely British, Nick thought. Those accents were unmistakable. The dark one spoke like Patrick Stewart in _Star Trek_, kind of clipped and precise. The other one spoke more slowly, drawing out his vowels in a pleasant burr. Here on business? Probably. Not _Wesen_, he thought, or Grimms. Didn't strike him as Reapers, either. Not ordinary, though. Well, if their business was anything to do with him, he'd find out. Time to go to work.

Nick and Hank spent most of the morning interrogating Joey. Joey was a burglar – something he made no bones about – but in this case, things had taken a weird turn.

"I told you, Detective," Joey said for the umpteenth time, "I don't do home invasions! Jeez, I don't even carry a crowbar, forget about knives or guns!

"Look, I cased the joint. Those people are loaded, and insured up to the hilt, right? So they're going to Miami for a week, right? I see them off in a cab, then go grab a bite and some sleep. Around four in the morning I go back to do the job. The drapes are drawn, but that's OK, they got this maid, and they probably told her to go in during the evening and close them. People do that.

"I already hacked the security system, so I pick the lock and go in, head for the bedroom 'cause that's where women keep their jewels, right? Only I'm halfway up the stairs, and suddenly all the lights go on and the guy is standing on the stairs with a gun on me!"

"And then," said Hank, "according to the houseowners' statement, you yell 'Crap! I'm sorry!", and hightail it outta there. He calls 911, nothing's taken, nobody's hurt, you're long gone and he wouldn't recognise you.

"You were home free, Joey. All you had to do was stay quiet. But instead you have a bouquet delivered to the house yesterday, with a note apologising for the inconvenience. A bouquet you paid for with your own credit card. Why?"

Joey drew himself up to his full five-foot-three.

"I'm a _professional_, detective!" He said stiffly. "I do my homework. I check my customers out. I never robbed anybody who couldn't afford it or who wasn't insured. I spent five years studying to be a locksmith so I don't have to break anything, and two years learning computers so I can hack systems without crashing them. I make sure the houses are empty and I never make a mess. I did one job a year ago, it was three weeks before they realised anything was gone!

"Now that poor lady took sick on the way to the airport, so they cancelled their vacation and came home. It's not nice, not polite, to go into somebody's home when they're there. I owed them an apology. Especially since she was sick."

"It's nice," Nick said as they sent Joey down to Holding, "to see somebody take a pride in their work!"

"Sure it is!" Hank growled. "But with nothing taken and no ID, most we can get this guy on is sending unsolicited flowers! Can't get breaking and entering 'cause he didn't break anything - picked the lock clean and neat. Can't even get trespassing, 'cause the guy who owns the house can't be sure it's Joey he saw!"

"We got a confession." Nick pointed out.

"Yeah, and his attorney'll say 'no harm, no foul', the DA'll go with it to save money on a trial, and he'll walk." Hank shook his head. "Chalk it up to experience."

They'd about got to their desks when Wu hailed them. "Captain wants you two in his office!"

Captain Renard was looking a little worried, Nick thought, but then he recognised the two men he'd seen in the diner, waiting in the office. This close, the odd sensation he'd felt before was doubled. There was power here, real power, but what kind?

"Gentlemen," Renard was saying, "These are two of my best officers, Detectives Nick Burkhardt and Hank Griffin. Nick, Hank, these are Detective Chief Inspector Harry Potter," the dark man with the scar, "and Detective Inspector Ronald Weasley" the redhead. "They're with the London Metropolitan Police, here on an important case. I want you two to give them any assistance you can."

"And keep us from making too many gaffes!" Weasley added with a broad, infectious, grin.

"The Metropolitan Police?" Hank frowned. "What's Scotland Yard doing in Portland?"

Potter chuckled. "As far as I know, Scotland Yard is still in London!" He pointed out. "_We're_ here looking for someone. Can we go somewhere for a coffee and talk about it?"

Nick glanced at Renard, who nodded. "Keep me posted." He said.

As Nick led them all back to the Squad Room he heard Weasley telling Hank "No, they just call us 'the Met', now. 'Scotland Yard' sort of went out in the '70's. HQ is still in New Scotland Yard, though."

Nick turned to Potter. "Detective Chief Inspector, that's a mouthful!" He remarked.

Potter rolled his eyes. "I know, I know! The head of all the police in the UK has the title 'Her Majesty's Chief Inspector of Constabulary'! You can call us DCI Potter and DI Weasley if you like, but just 'Harry' and 'Ron' would be better.

"You're the bloke I saw in the diner this morning, aren't you? I'm good at faces."

Renard watched them go through the glass walls of his office, then picked up his cellphone and dialled an overseas number.

"_C'est moi._" He said. "Would you like to tell me why two British Aurors just arrived in my precinct without any warning?"

"I'll have to give you some background," Harry was saying, "and it's a bit sensitive, so please keep it as quiet as you can. Back in the late '90's we had a problem in the UK with a far-right group, led by a man called Riddle. They had big plans for a coup, but all they achieved was a few minor acts of terrorism before they were rumbled. They holed up in a ruined castle up in Scotland, there was a shoot-out with some armed police, some got killed, others got arrested.

"That's where the trouble started, really, because some of the ones that got caught sang like canaries. Among other things, they told us about this woman..."

Ron took a photo out of a folder he had and passed it across. It was a high-quality colour print of a small, squat woman with a toadlike face and mousy brown hair she wore tied in a girlish bow.

"Her name is Dolores Jane Umbridge, and she was a highly-placed Civil Servant working for the Home Office. She was up to her neck in the conspiracy and had been passing intel to Riddle's people for years.

"As you can imagine, the Government wanted to avoid a scandal, so she was quietly arrested. They told everybody she'd fallen ill."

Harry sighed. "Turns out it wasn't too far from the truth, because when they came to talk to her, they found she was as batty as a fruitcake!"

"Totally bloody mental!" Ron affirmed. "So instead of having a secret trial or whatever, they sectioned her."

"Confined in a secure psychiatric hospital." Harry went on. "They did everything they could for her, but she went on deteriorating. Delusional, paranoid, the whole thing.

"This was back in 1997, and nobody thought she was getting out. But then, of course, 2008 happened!"

Hank and Nick shared a look. Like everyone else, they had unpleasant memories of the 'Planets in the Sky' phenomenon and the subsequent invasion of Earth by vicious robot-like aliens. The consequences of that short but chaotic period were still being felt everywhere.

"There was a break-out." Hank surmised.

Ron nodded. "Daleks shot a fighter down and it crashed into the hospital. Lots of people killed, others got out. We didn't have any trouble rounding up the most of them, but some were a bit more clever. Umbridge was one of them."

"We kept looking, but no clue for a long time. Then we had a tip-off from the FBI that she'd been spotted over here. As far as we could make out, she was headed in this direction, so Harry and I came over to have a look."

Harry leaned forward. "Umbridge may not look like much." He said grimly. "But she's extremely dangerous. As I said, she's delusional and paranoid, but she's also highly intelligent. She tried to escape once before and almost succeeded, tried to kill a nurse in the process. She's no regard for human life, doesn't care who she hurts."

"Sounds like serial killer material." Nick remarked. "Maybe we should call in the BAU?"

"We're liaising with the FBI." Harry told him. "If it all blows up, we can call them in. But what with one thing and another, we'd prefer to keep it low-key."

"Do we have any idea what this woman might be planning?" Hank wanted to know.

Harry shook his head. "We don't know what she's up to, but it won't be good!

"It's only fair to tell you, as well, that she may already have killed. We're not sure, there's no evidence, just a couple of bodies in places we think she's been to, with no other explanations.

"There's a businessman in New York, Mac Taylor and his team are looking into that one, and a Navy officer in Washington DC, that one's under NCIS jurisdiction. Chances are, it's nothing to do with Umbridge. Here are the files, we'll be contacted if anything shows up."

"So," Hank said, "We need to wait and see, right?"

"Not exactly." Ron told him. "We can look over the airport, train and bus arrivals, and check local hotels and so on. Can't be that many British tourists in Portland. No offence, but this isn't exactly Orlando, Florida!

"Old-fashioned leg-work, really. Show the photo around and see if anyone recognises it."

It took less than an hour to get hold of the airport and other records. They were just starting in when Renard came over.

"Nick, Hank, there's been a man found dead in his apartment. Normally I wouldn't bother you, but the witness who found him asked for Nick specifically, says he knows you."

Nick glanced over at the visitors, Harry waved a hand.

"Go." He said. "We didn't come here to keep you from the day job. Ron and I will carry on with these and catch you up when you get back."

The apartment block was a nice one, not high-end, but middle-class and comfortable. Wu was already there and gave them the basics.

"The witness is a repairman, called by appointment about forty minutes ago. He couldn't get an answer, so he got the super to buzz him in and they went up together. The vics' door was ajar, so they went in. Found him dead in his armchair, no wounds or signs of violence, but the apartment had been tossed.

"CSU and the ME are just waiting on you guys. Witnesses are over there. Repairmans' clean, he was at some kind of lodge last night, got about fifty witnesses. So was the super, it seems they know each other.

"One thing about the body. It's weird. Like they say, no wounds or signs of a struggle, but his face! Never seen anyone look so scared or in so much pain!"

Nick thanked him and turned to Hank. "You go on up, I'll take the witnesses."

He'd already guessed who, or at least what, the witnesses might be, and he wasn't entirely surprised to see Bud standing in a corner, looking relieved to see him. The super, standing next to Bud, went into an involuntary _woge_ on recognising Nick, revealing himself to be another _Eisbiber_.

"I'm not," Nick said quietly, "going to be cutting any heads off right now, OK?"

"I told you he was a good guy!" Bud said to his friend. "Nick, this is Brad, he's the super here."

"Hi, Brad, I remember you from that time I came to the Lodge." Nick said soothingly. "Now, you want to tell me what happened?"

"Well, Brad here and I have an agreement where I do all the maintenance work for this block." Bud told him. "He called me yesterday and said Mr Carmichaels' refrigerator needed work, so I agreed to come over this morning. Mr Carmichael knew to expect me, but he didn't answer his bell, so I buzzed Brad and we went up together."

"We were kinda worried," Brad spoke up, "Mr Carmichael's an elderly guy and we thought he might be sick or something. Anyway, we found his door ajar, so we went in and found him, dead in his chair, with that look on his face..."

Brad clearly couldn't go on, but Bud took over.

"We were gonna call an ambulance until we noticed the mess. Mr Carmichael had a lot of stuff, but he always kept it neat. But everything was all over, so we knew someone had been in. We called the police instead. I'm sorry I asked for you, Nick, but..."

"Was he one of you?" Nick asked quietly.

Brad shook his head. "Not an _Eisbiber_, no. He was a _Maushertz_."

That put a new dimension on things. Nick could not imagine why anyone would want to kill a _Maushertz_. The shy, timid creatures went out of their way to avoid upsetting anyone. But they were hoarders, and if this Carmichael had gotten hold of something important or valuable, it might be worth killing for. Of course, it would not be out of character for an elderly and frail _Maushertz _to die of fright during a home invasion.

"Do any other _Wesen_ live here?" He asked.

Brad nodded. "A family of _Seelengut_, couple of _Reiningen,_ a _Stangebar_ and more _Eisbiber_. Nobody unpleasant. They come here because they know I run the place and they feel safe here."

"Makes sense." Nick acknowledged. "OK, well that officer over there will take your statements. Just tell her what happened and what you saw. You're not suspects, so don't worry, but if you need me, Bud has my number."

As he went off to find Hank, Nick ran over things in his mind. None of the other _Wesen_ Brad had mentioned were inherently dangerous, except perhaps the _Reiningen_. The ratlike _Wesen_ could be vicious when cornered, but Nick couldn't imagine a _Maushertz _cornering anyone.

The scene was just as Bud and Brad had described it to him. Mr Carmichael was huddled in an armchair in his living room, wearing pyjamas and a robe. He had been a thin old man with whispy white hair, very frail-looking when alive, Nick imagined, now more so in death. His head was resting against the back of the chair but his face was stretched in a wide-eyed grimace of pain and fear.

Every room in the apartment, apart from the kitchen and bathroom, was lined with shelves, which had clearly once been stacked with boxes and files, all neatly labelled. Now, however, the shelves were partially stripped, the boxes, files and their contents were scattered over the floor.

Hank looked up as Nick came in and said, "Somebody sure tossed this place! Looks to me like the old guy let whoever it was in. No sign of forced entry. ME puts T-O-D around twelve last night. No signs of violence, could be a seizure or heart attack. Looks like he was scared to death if you ask me."

Nick nodded. "I saw a camera in the foyer. We should pull the tapes from last night, see who came and went. We should also do a door-to-door. We also need to got through this room. Somebody was looking for something. They may have found it and taken it already, or they might've got scared when the old guy died and left in a hurry. Either way, we should find out what they were after, if we can."

Hank stepped a little closer and asked quietly, "Was he one of...?"

"Yeah." Nick replied. "A harmless one. Timid enough to die of fright. But somebody wanted something he had bad enough to do this, so we still need to find whatever it was, and them!"

They left some uniforms to carry on the search, giving them instructions to bag and tag anything valuable- or unusual-looking. Others were assigned to the door-to-door. There was really nothing else to do for now, so they headed back to the precinct. Their British guests were still patiently working through the records.

"Nothing to report here." Harry told Nick. "Hope you had more luck with your case!"

Hank promptly started giving chapter and verse on the death of Mr Carmichael. Harry listened politely, though Nick saw his eyes narrow when Hank mentioned the state of the body. He wondered why the Englishman had a particular interest in that, and was trying to figure out a way to ask when a cellphone cheeped.

Everyone looked around, then Ron picked a phone up from the desk opposite his and said. "It's yours, Harry. Looks like you've got another billy-doo from that Ziva wench at NCIS." He rolled his eyes. "Always gets the girls, this one!" He informed Nick and Hank.

Harry snorted. "Don't think I'd survive Ziva! That girl chews nails and spits rust!" He checked the SMS. "She wants me to call her. Excuse me, gents?"

He wandered off into a quiet corner. Hank continued talking with Ron, asking if England was worth visiting for a vacation. Nick took advantage of their distraction to edge nearer to Harry. As a Grimm, his senses were a little bit keener than most, and he could make out Harry's end of the conversation.

"Ziva? You asked me to call... Yeah... Portland...It's nice... So what's going on?...Ducky didn't find anything? Nothing at all? Bet he's doing his nut!...Who?...Dr Brennan? Who's he?...She, sorry!..._That_ good, eh? And she still didn't find anything?...Yeah, that's what I'm thinking...AK, definitely...Let the FBS know right away. What are you going to tell the others?...I'll talk to Kingsley about bringing them into the loop, but you know the rules...OK, yeah...Ginny and the kids are fine...Look, can you call Duncan in Paris and see if he can look around?...Well, she could have gone anywhere between then and now and it's worth a try...OK, Ron and I will drop in on the way home, have dinner or something...Cheers, bab."

Nick sidled back toward the others as smoothly as he could, but he couldn't get rid of the suspicion that Harry knew he'd been listening in. The British cop had first-class instincts and skills, if Nick was any judge. There were a lot of questions raised by that conversation. Clearly it concerned the dead CPO in Washington. "Ducky" was obviously an ME, and "Dr Brennan" some kind of consultant they'd called in. Which meant that the cause of death was pretty obscure. So far, so commonplace.

But what was the FBS? Some Government agency he'd never heard of? What was an AK? Not an AK-47, presumably, or the CoD would have been obvious. Who was Kingsley? Harry's boss? Who was this Duncan in Paris? CIA? MI6? Not with the French police or secret service, not with a name like that!

"OK, everybody," Harry announced. "It looks like Umbridge did that Washington job. It was done with the AK." He turned to Hank and Nick. "AK is the nickname for a British Army commando technique. Riddle used to be in the SAS, and he taught all his people the move. It's one of those tricks that anyone can use on someone who isn't expecting it, but it's not possible if your victim sees you coming. It's also one of those things that doesn't leave many traces.

"So, if we assume she was in Washington a fortnight ago, and in New York last week, why the sudden jump West?"

Hank shrugged. "Most British people know about the East Coast, and California, but like you said, Ron, not many come out to Oregon. Could be this Umbridge figured that out, and came where she thought nobody from England would find her."

"Makes sense." Ron allowed. "If she wants to lie low."

"But why the killing in Washington?" Nick wanted to know. "Not to mention the New York one, if that was her?"

"Who knows?" Harry shook his head. "She's paranoid and delusional. The bloke could've looked at her funny, and she might have thought he was a spy sent to get her, or even an alien!"

They went back to work after that, a little more intensely than before.

Just before end of shift, Nick got an SMS from Monroe, asking him to come over as soon as he could.

_What now? _He thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Wicked Witch in the West**

2. _"There's a lot more going on here."_

Juliette was having dinner with friends, so there was no problem about Nick going over to Monroes' house straight after work.

His _Blutbad_ friend let him in, looking more nervous than usual. Nick was not particularly surprised to find Rosalee there, but she was also looking anxious. Monroe gave him coffee and they sat down. Rosalee began to speak without preamble.

"Nick, what do you know about werewolves?"

Nick shrugged. "All the movie stuff – full moon, silver bullets and so on. Since I found out about all this, I guess I'd just assumed it was what ordinary people called _Blutbaden. _Why?"

Monroe shook his head. "It's not as simple as that, Nick. Yes, a lot of my people got called werewolves, but there are at least two other kinds.

"There's the American kind, or Native American, anyway. Shamans who can send their spirit out in the shape of a wolf or coyote to either help friends or scout out enemies.

"Then there's the other kind, the bad kind. The full moon, silver bullet kind. The kind that kills for fun and profit. To become that kind of werewolf, you need to either be a wizard, or be cursed by one."

"Excuse me," Nick had thought himself beyond surprise or incredulity, but apparently he wasn't yet. "Did you just say _wizard_? As in pointy hat, magic staff, robe with stars on it, subtle and quick to anger wizard?"

"Well," Rosalee said carefully, "a couple of the ones I know are a little grouchy, sure. But Mr Pounce wears a fedora, and Jack Debinski always wears a baseball cap."

Nick looked steadily at her. "I'm listening." He said.

"You know, Nick," Rosalee said, "that I sell more than spices and fancy teas, right?"

"You sell potions – medicines – to _Wesen_ who can't be treated by ordinary doctors." Nick replied.

Rosalee nodded. "Uh-huh, and I cover that by selling the spices and teas to regular people. But there is another sideline - one of a few my brother had, but less risky than the others.

"You see Nick, there _are_ witches and wizards in the world. People who can do magic. Like change things into other things, levitate stuff, even fly or teleport. Now most of them live way out in the country, as far as possible from ordinary people -they call us 'muggles' – but some of them live in cities and towns like regular people. Some of them live right here in Portland.

"Now one of the things they do is brew potions, and they need special ingredients, ingredients I can supply. They have rules about keeping themselves secret, but my brother convinced them that we were what they call 'Squibs' – that's like people born into wizard families but with no powers – so they'll buy things from me."

"OK," Nick said, "so we have wizards in Portland. What is this about? What's the connection with werewolves?"

Rosalee took an old newspaper from a pile beside her. "Wizards have a history with werewolves." She said. "Not a good one. Most of the time, it's with the magical kind, but sometimes they come across _Blutbaden_. They don't know about us, about _Wesen_, and they don't differentiate between a _Blutbad _and a werewolf. Some of them have spells or devices that can detect a _Blutbad_." She sighed and handed the newspaper to Nick. "This is an old edition of a British wizard newspaper. Old Mr Pounce gets this paper, and when he's done with it he brings it to the shop – says I can use it to wrap things up, but I can't , of course, not with those pictures. This one's from 1992."

The paper was called the _Daily Prophet_,and the most disconcerting thing about it was that the colour photograph on the front page _moved_. It was like a short video loop, showing a handsome but rather over-groomed man smiling broadly and putting his arm around the shoulders of a small, skinny, dark-haired boy.

The caption read _Meeting of Legends: Noted monster-hunter and author Gilderoy Lockhart pictured with the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, yesterday at Flourish and Botts. Mr Lockhart revealed that he has just accepted the post of Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts._

Harry Potter? Nick looked more closely at the photo. The boy looked about twelve, and less than happy about being dragged into the picture. But the untidy black hair and intense green eyes were the same, and the jagged scar on his forehead confirmed it. Nick looked up, Rosalee handed him another paper.

This one was thin, a 'Special Edition". The headline screamed _YOU-KNOW-WHO DEFEATED! Fierce Battle at Hogwarts! Dark Lord Slain in Prophesied Duel with Boy Who Lived!_ Most of the rest of the page was taken up with a group photo. Apart from a tall, thin elderly woman, they were teenagers. There in the centre, one arm round the shoulders of a small, pretty redhead, was a teenage Potter, unshaven, weary-looking, but showing clear signs of becoming the man Nick had met today. Next to him was a tall, gangly youth with a long nose and red hair, unmistakably Ron Weasley, holding hands with a slim brunette.

"That's why I dropped my cell this morning." Rosalee explained. "When I saw those two coming into the diner, I recognised the Potter guy. I wanted to get Monroe out of sight, just in case."

Monroe spoke up. "These wizards don't know about _Wesen_, or Grimms. But what is this Potter guy -who's some kind of wizard hero -doing in Portland? We thought you should know, Nick."

Nick looked grim. "There's a lot more going on here." He told them. "Those two guys – Potter and Weasley – are working out of the precinct! They're posing as Scotland Yard detectives looking for some escaped psychotic terrorist, woman called Umbridge."

Rosalee frowned, then surfed through the papers again, finally finding the one she wanted. "I don't think they're exactly _posing_, Nick. Says here that in 2007, Harry Potter was made Head of the Auror Department of the Ministry of Magic. Far as I can make out, Aurors are wizard cops, and if this Brit Ministry works like the Federal Bureau of Sorcery over here, with the non-wizard government, then he probably does count as an English police officer."

"Oh, Potter's a cop, all right!" Nick stated. "And a good one, too, if I'm any judge. Trouble is, that means that this Umbridge they're looking for is almost certainly a witch!

"Look, thanks for the heads-up, guys. Monroe, you should keep your head down for now, and let any other _Blutbaden_ in town know, if you can. Rosalee, these wizards might come into your shop, or some of your regular wizard customers might have heard something. Keep your ears and eyes open, and if anything comes up, let me know.

"Right now, I've gotta go to the trailer and see if I can find something that can scare a _Maushertz_ to death!"

"A cat?" Monroe suggested, rather unkindly. "A Kewpie doll? A clown?"

"Clowns scare _me_!" Rosalee pointed out. "Be careful, Nick!"

To get to the trailer, Nick had to pass by the precinct house, which is how he saw Potter and Weasley slipping in though the door. Acting on instinct, he followed them, just quickly enough to see them heading down toward the mortuary.

The area was empty and locked up for the night, Weasley tried the outer door, shrugged, glanced quickly around, then produced a thin stick from inside his coat and pointed it at the lock.

"_Alohomora!_" He said softly. The lock clicked and he pushed the door open. As the two Englishmen went through, Nick padded after them, hearing the same thing happen to the inner door. He slipped into the ante-room. The inner door was ajar, and he stepped up to it. His field of view was limited, but he could hear everything.

"Carmichael!" Potter said. "This is the one! Hope it's not too messy."

"Won't be." Weasleys' voice. "Schedule says it's not due for autopsy until tomorrow morning."

"OK, let's get him on the slab so we can have a proper look." Potter replied. "_Mobilicorpus!_"

There was a short silence, then Weasley said. "Well, the look on his face says it all, right?"

"You'd think so," Potter said, "but we'd best make sure. There are other things that can cause facial distortion. _Mortuis Revelis!_"

Nick saw a vivid green glow, then Weasley said, "Bloody Hell!"

After a moment, Potter remarked. "Well, at least we know it was the Killing Curse. But what the Hell is he?"

"Buggered if I know!" Weasley replied. "Looks like a mouse! Animagus?"

"Doubt it." Potter said. "The FBS gave us a list of all the wizards in Portland, and none of them are licensed Animagi. Besides, Animagi actually turn into the animal, completely. This bloke's neither one thing nor the other."

"Whatever he is or was," Weasley pointed out, "he was still murdered, and we've a good idea as to who by!"

"True enough." Potter allowed. "But knowing _what_ he is might help us figure out _why_ she killed him."

"You want me to give Her Indoors a shout?" Weasley asked.

"Yes, mate, I do." Potter stated. "But if she heard you calling her that, you'd be in trouble!"

Weasley chuckled. "You know 'Mione, mate. I've been in the dog-house with her since we were eleven! It's the basis of our relationship!"

Another short silence, then Weasley said, "'Mione? You there, pet?"

A womans' voice, rather faint, as if through a cell-phone speaker, replied. "Darling? Is everything OK?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine, Harry's fine, but have you got a minute to spare? We need to pick your brains." Weasley told her.

"Oh! And here I was thinking you only wanted me for my body!" Came the reply. "Well, the kids are at Grimmauld Place for a few days, and I've finished what I was working on, so give me a sec and I'll be with you!"

A few second later, there was a sharp 'pop', and a woman's voice said. "Hi, you two!"

Nick took a chance and edged the door a little wider. Weasley was locked in a passionate embrace with a slim brunette who was clearly an older version of the teenager he'd been standing with in the newspaper photo. After rather longer than the impatient Nick felt was strictly necessary, the couple parted and the woman turned to Potter, hugged him and planted a firm, sisterly kiss on his cheek.

"Blech!" She said. "You need a shave, Mr Potter! You've needed one since you were thirteen, as I recall. How does Ginny put up with it?"

"Uses my chin as an emery board." Potter told her. "Now, then, what do you make of this, Hermione?"

Hermione looked over at the slab. "Goodness!" She exclaimed. "What in Merlins' name is that?"

"Well, according to the Portland police, he's a 68-year-old IC1 male named James Carmichael. He was found dead this morning in his flat, which had been rather messily searched. Dead without a mark on him, no medical history to speak of, and an expression of extreme pain or fear on his face." Potter told her.

"So you two sneaked in here before the autopsy and used the Forensic Revealing Charm, right?" Hermione asked. "And this happened?"

"As you say, pet." Weasley replied. "We were sort of hoping you'd know what it was all about?"

"Hmm." Hermione mused. "Y'know, I've missed this, the three of us, working out mysteries. Just like the old days back at Hogwarts!"

"True." Weasley remarked. "All we need is Neville to fall over something, Luna to say something weird and Ginny to make goo-goo eyes at Harry!"

Hermione whacked him lightly on the arm. "You!" She told him. "You forgot Snape making sarky comments!

"Anyway, I'll need to do some research before I can tell what happened to chappie here."

"Well, we're sort of pushed for time." Potter pointed out. "So we'd better ask somebody with local knowledge. Nick, you can come out from there now, you've heard quite enough!"

Nick kept his hand on his pistol as he came through the door, but noted that all three of the others held sticks, apparently casually.

"'Mione, this is Detective Nick Burkhardt, Portland PD. Nick, this is my better half, Hermione."

"Pleased to meet you." Hermione said.

Nick nodded, then turned to Harry. "How did you know I was there?" He asked.

Harry shrugged. "Same way you'd have known if I was watching you, mate. Had to be you, because you're the one who didn't swallow the Met cover-story."

"I'd had a heads-up." Nick admitted. "I was with friends in the diner this morning and one of them recognised you."

"The werewolf?" Ron asked.

"No, my other friend." Nick said. "And Monroe isn't a werewolf, he's a _Blutbad."_

Ron raised an eyebrow at Hermione, who nodded.

"I've heard the term used by some werewolves. The Type D NFTs call themselves that." She turned to Nick. "I work for the Ministry of Magic, my role is to ensure fair and proper treatment for all magical creatures, especially the intelligent ones. That includes Centaurs, House-elves, Giants, Trolls and Werewolves.

"To do that, we have to classify them. These _Blutbaden_ are classified as Type D NFT – Not Fully Transforming. They conform to the classic 'Wolf-man' from the old films, as they don't fully turn into wolves. Type D's, and the Type C HAPs are non-magical, so we treat them as muggles."

"Which means," Ron put in, "that unless they interfere with us, we don't interfere with them. So tell your mate he's got nothing to worry about."

"You don't hunt werewolves down, then?" Nick asked.

"Only the magical ones, the Type A and B's." Harry told him. "And only the dangerous ones at that. We try to get them on-side or into treatment. There are potions to help the Type A's. One of my best friends was a Type A." His eyes went sad. "His lad is my godson."

Ron put a hand on Harry' shoulder and Hermione hugged him briefly. He shook himself, smiled at them, then said to Nick.

"OK, we can talk more about this later. Right now, can you tell us anything we don't know about this poor chap?"

Nick looked at the body on the slab. Carmichael was in full _woge_, which was odd because _Wesen _usually went back to human form on death. There was also a vivid green aura around the corpse.

"OK, we know about the green bit." Harry said. "That just tells us the last spell cast on him, which was _Avada Kedavra _ -the Killing Curse. So we know he was murdered. It's the rest that's bothering us."

_The only way to get more information,_ Nick thought, _is to give some._ Besides, if Rosalee was right, these three were the wizard good guys.

"OK, the first thing you have to understand is that _Blutbaden_ aren't the only species of these human-animal types." He said. "There are lots of them about, they call themselves _Wesen_ and most of them are just good people who live out ordinary lives.

"Mr Carmichael here was a _Maushertz_. As you can see, they're a mouse-like species, harmless and timid. They hoard things, but they don't steal. Some other _Wesen_ like to bully them. But I don't know why a wizard would want to kill one."

"Neither do we." Harry pointed out. "Until just now, we never knew they existed, apart from _Blutbaden_, and unless any of them are wizards, we wouldn't have any reason to know about them, much less murder them. Apart from those wizards who believe that all muggles should be killed on principle, and most of them are in prison or dead."

"Except Umbridge." Ron reminded him. "And she's completely psychotic. Could just be a coincidence."

Harry shook his head. "This blokes' gaff was turned over. If it was her, she was looking for something. Carmichael being one of these _Wesen_ might not have anything to do with it, or it might have everything!"

"Umbridge always hated what she called 'half-breeds'." Hermione noted. "Centaurs, werewolves and so on. Even half-blood and muggle-born wizards. If she found out about the _Wesen_, she'd want to wipe them out."

"So," Harry said, "how do you find out about _Wesen_, Nick?"

Nick shrugged. "Two ways, either you see one, or you're like me. You see, _Wesen_ look human most of the time. But if they get angry or afraid, they _woge_, show their animal form. Most of the time, unless they're really mad or scared, people can't see it, but sometimes, in extreme circumstances, it happens and you get stories in the supermarket tabloids.

"I'm different though. I'm what they call a Grimm. My family has always had the ability to see a _Wesen_ every time they _woge._ We used to hunt them down and kill them on general principles in the bad old days. I don't. As long as they stay on the right side of the law, I let them be. Sometimes, I help them if they get in trouble.

"I may be a Grimm, but I'm a cop first!"

It was at that point the glow around Carmichaels' body faded and he shifted back to a fully-human appearance. Ron pointed his stick at the body and said "_Mobilicorpus!_" The body rose off the slab and floated, Ron began to guide it back to the storage section.

"Could Umbridge be a Grimm?" Harry asked.

Hermione shook her head. "Doubt it. If wizards could be Grimms, we'd have known about the _Wesen _long ago. We'd have either wiped them out or brought them into our world. Must be the same as Slayers, if you're one of those, you can't be a witch, even if a Slayer is born into a wizard family. By the same token, _Wesen_ probably can't be wizards.

"Should we contact Sanctuary, d'you think?"

"No point." Harry told her. "If Helens' people knew about _Wesen_, they'd have told us. Same goes for Torchwood.

"Nick, is it possible for somebody to _become_ a Grimm, or do you have to be born one?"

"I don't know." Nick admitted. "I always figured it for a family thing, genetic. Nothing in the books..."

"You have books?" Hermione interrupted excitedly.

"Uh-oh!" Ron commented. "You just said the magic word, mate! You'll not get shut of her now!"

"I love you too, darling." Hermione told him. "But seriously, Nick, there might be something in the books about non-Grimms seeing _Wesen_."

"There might also," Nick said, "be something about any dealings Grimms might have had with wizards before. We'd better go see."

"So," Nick said as they set off in his SUV, "You're wizards."

"We are," Hermione replied, "and for the record, Harry gets a little grumpy in the mornings, but Ron is about as subtle as a brick through a plate glass window!"

Nick couldn't help chuckling. Then he said, "Are you guys going to get into trouble for telling me?"

"Maybe." Harry said. "But then again, things have changed over the last few years. People are starting to accept that having some muggles know about us can be useful. Depends on the muggle, really."

"What does that mean?" Nick wanted to know.

"Well," Harry told him, "I'm friends with someone at NCIS, for instance. She knows who I am and what I do, and we both have access to information that the other finds useful. I also know Tony Stark..."

"_The_ Tony Stark? As in Stark International?" Nick asked.

"The very same." Harry assured him. "Someone that wealthy, powerful and clever is always handy to have on tap!

"Now, in your case, Nick, not only are you in the same line of work as Ron and I -police – but you're a Grimm. Now we wizards know nothing about Grimms or _Wesen, _so putting you on the list would be useful."

After a moment, Nick asked. "How much of what you told Hank and I was true? I mean about Umbridge and your case?"

"It was all sort of true." Harry revealed. "We just edited bits. There _was_ a terrorist named Tom Riddle, who called himself Lord Voldemort. He was a Pureblood supremacist who staged a coup against the Ministry of Magic. Umbridge worked for the Ministry, and though she was never actually a member of Voldemorts' organisation herself, she was more than a little zealous about enforcing new decrees against Half-blooded and muggle-born wizards and witches."

"This Voldemort," Nick asked, "was he the Dark Lord you killed?" To Harrys' surprised look, he amplified. "I have a _Wesen_ friend who sells potions ingredients to the local wizards. She showed me some old copies of a wizard paper -it's where she recognised you from."

"Bloody _Daily Prophet_, I'll bet!" Harry growled, then went on. "Just FYI, I didn't kill Voldemort -I was seventeen and a bit of an idealist back then – his own spell backfired on him. And just so you know, I'd not hesitate to kill him now, I've learned a bit since then.

"Anyway, Umbridge. When the war was over, the new Minister of Magic put an arrest warrant out on Umbridge for war crimes. She was arrested here in the US by American Aurors. She and a couple of Snatchers had come over here to hunt down British refugees, you see. The Federal Bureau of Sorcery wanted to charge her with kidnap and assault, but the White Council – sort of a wizard UN-cum-Interpol – decided that the war-crimes charges were more serious and that the UK had prior jurisdiction. So they sent her back and in return we extradited a couple of American Dark wizards who'd been working for Voldemort in the UK but were wanted on capital charges over here.

"Under examination by the Wizengamot, Umbridge was found to be psychotic, but the only wizard hospital that could treat her, St Mungos, is right in the middle of London and far from secure. So she was sent to Azkaban Prison with the others. That's a castle on an island in the North Sea, miserable place.

"Then 2008 happened, and among other things, the Daleks shot down UNITs' air-carrier, the _Valiant. _What nobody knew was that the thing crash-landed virtually on top of Azkaban. Lots of guards and prisoners were killed, others were unaccounted for. Some of those were picked up, dead or alive, out of the sea by the SAR people. But about three prisoners, Umbridge among them, were never found.

"We didn't know whether she was dead or alive, but we put out a worldwide alert just in case. Then a few weeks ago, she was spotted by American Aurors in New Orleans. She promptly vanished, to be picked up again in Chicago and followed as far as Oregon before she gave the FBS the slip again.

"Meantime, my contacts at NCIS and the NYPD had called me in because they thought they had magical murders on their hands. So the FBS knew Ron and I were here, and asked us to follow up on Umbridge, as knowing more about her. Portland seemed as good a place as any to start, and here we are!"

"You think the killings in New York and Washington might be _Wesen_?" Nick wanted to know.

"It's possible," Harry allowed, "and now we know the spell to use to find out. Except that both those bodies have been autopsied, so it's a bit too late."

"I've got a nasty feeling," Ron said more quietly than usual, "that we're going to be able to test a couple more before this is over."


	3. Chapter 3

**The Wicked Witch in the West**

3. _"They have to have a plan."_

She woke to a pounding on the door, and a young voice shouting.

"Lady! Lady! Ms Bridges! Are you OK?"

She pulled herself out of bed and dragged on her dressing gown, calling out as she did so: "Yes, yes, I'm fine!"

She opened the door to the length of the chain, keeping her wand where it couldn't be seen. It was the young boy – couldn't be more than nineteen – who watched the desk at night. He looked her over anxiously.

"I was just taking a walk," he told her, "when I heard you cry out. Sounded like you were scared or hurt. So I came to see if you needed help."

"I'm all right." She assured him. "It was just a bad dream, I get them sometimes."

The boy nodded gravely. "Like my Dad, then. He was a firefighter in New York, on 9/11. We moved here and bought this motel after, 'cause of the memories. But he still has nightmares sometimes. Something like that happen to you, Ms Bridges?"

The boy was sincerely concerned and sympathetic, she realised. He was a muggle, of course, but at least he didn't pretend to be anything else, unlike the animal she'd put down that morning.

She managed a weak smile. "Mine was a bit later, dear. It happened in 2008, those horrible robots shot down a...plane. It crashed into my house, killed my family."

The boy grimaced. "I'm so sorry." He said. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Hot chocolate? Oh, you English people like tea, right?"

"A cup of tea would be lovely, dear." She told him. "Put it on my bill, please."

He grinned at her. "It's OK, ma'am, this one's on the house!"

Later, she sat up in bed, sipping the tea -which was passable, for America – and trying to relax.

It was always the same dream: darkness, the screaming in the sky, then the lurid firelight, the stone walls in ruins, the pain in her head, the blood in her eyes. Then the god, conical, all of shining metal, perfect, beautiful. "Ex-ter-min-ate!" It commanded her. "Ex-ter-min-ate!". Then it exploded, screaming, to reveal a muggle-born guard lying on the floor, pointing his stolen wand. She staggered toward him, and as he begged her to help him, she picked up a jagged chunk of stone and smashed his lying muggle head in. She liberated the wand and went on through the fire. A man in a uniform she didn't recognise came toward her, as he saw her, he _changed_. His face became that of an eagle. The pain in her head reached a crescendo, and she screamed and screamed and screamed.

She'd killed it, of course. And now she knew what the god had wanted of her. These half-beasts, half-humans were everywhere, and now she could see them. The price was the unending pain in her head, but that would go when her task was completed.

But she was alone, and there was so much to do.

Dolores Umbridge bent her head and began to weep silently.

The Weasleys both loved the trailer, though for different reasons. Hermione had dived on the books and begun reading at a speed Nick had trouble believing. Meanwhile, Ron was investigating the weapons cupboard with ill-concealed glee.

"I thought wizards couldn't use ordinary – muggle – weapons?" Nick remarked.

"What gave you that idea?" Harry chuckled. He pulled aside his jacket and showed an issue holster holding a standard 9mm Glock like Nicks'. "I'm cleared for firearms by the Met." He went on. "So's Ron, but he's officially a marksman. Give him the right gun and he can pip the ace at any distance you can name!

"Just so you know, I also have a throwing knife up my sleeve and Ron has one of those telescoping batons. And our wands, of course.

"But as for your arsenal here, Ron just loves antique weapons!"

As they talked, both men had been desultorily paging through a couple of the books that Hermione had somehow overlooked. Now Harry turned a page and his jaw dropped:

"Bugger me!" He said.

"Not right now, mate!" Ron replied without looking around. Nick grinned and Hermione rolled her eyes before asking "What, Harry?"

"It seems Nicks' ancestors and I have a common acquaintance!" Harry announced.

He held up the book so they could see. On one page was a picture, hand-drawn, of a large, blue box or cabinet – Nick couldn't tell which. On the opposite page were sketches of eleven male faces.

"Who are those guys?" Nick wanted to know.

"Guy." Harry told him. "One guy and, it seems, eleven faces." He pointed to one of the faces -youngish, sharp-featured, with an infectious grin. "When I met him, he looked like that!"

"Oooh, that man!" Hermione growled. "He gets everywhere!"

Nick took the book from Harry and turned to the next page. "The Doctor." He noted. "He seems to have had dealings with several of my ancestors, over several centuries. Not always on the best of terms, either."

"Hm!" Harry grunted. "The Doctor wouldn't take kindly to anyone who killed people on principle, just for being different."

"In that case, if I meet him, we'll agree on something." Nick stated.

"I should hope so," Harry replied, "because he's not somebody you want to piss off."

"That apart," Hermione said, "there's nothing in these books to indicate that wizards have ever encountered any _wesen_ except _blutbaden_ or that we've ever encountered Grimms before now.

"But there are at least three occasions on which ordinary muggles have, as it were, become Grimms. As far as I can make out, all those occasions seem to be linked to some kind of physical trauma – a head injury – along with a pre-existing psychological condition."

"Well, Umbridge was certifiable long before she was sent to Azkaban!" Ron said flatly.

"We don't _know_ that, Ron!" Hermione said sharply. "She was always a nasty piece of work, but she may not always have been psychotic."

"If you say so, pet." Ron said peaceably. "But it's more than likely she got a bang on the nut when the _Valiant_ crashed into Azkaban."

"That might have triggered it," Hermione allowed. "But it doesn't explain why she killed that poor old man. Or even confirm that it was her. Nick, you said there were other wizards in Portland?"

"That's what they tell me." Nick said. "But I don't think I'm the person to investigate them! How about we go see Rosalee tomorrow? She's a _wesen,_ a _fuchsbau_, and she runs a tea, spice and herb shop in town. But she also sells special medicines to other _wesen_, and potion ingredients to the local wizards.

"Way I see it, she can tell Harry and Ron where to find the wizards, so you can do some canvassing – they'll talk to Aurors, I suppose. Meantime, Hank – who knows about me – Monroe and I can ask around the local _wesen_, see if anything else is going on."

"Sounds good." Harry agreed.

"But right now," Hermione said, "it's nearly one in the morning, so I want to get back to the hotel you lads are staying in, make love to my husband and get some kip before I apparate back to Surrey!"

"Motion seconded!" Ron asserted.

One of the difficulties of being in America, Umbridge had realised early on, was getting a proper breakfast. It wasn't that the foods were unavailable, either. New Orleans, with its deep French influences, had teemed with cafés where one could obtain coffee and croissants. New York was the most cosmopolitan city in the world, and any kind of food could be got there. Washington DC was, for a capital city, oddly parochial however, and Portland marginally more so. But the real problem was fending off friendly 'servers' who seemed to want her to eat herself into heart failure!

Umbridge, at seven in the morning, was nauseated by the very idea of bacon, sausages, eggs Benedict (whatever they might be), pancakes and scones masquerading as biscuits. Her worst experience had been in a small town in the South, during her first visit to America, when a grandmotherly restaurant proprietor had tried to coax her into trying some utterly foul-looking porridge-type mixture known as 'grits'.

However, there was a small coffee-shop about two minutes from her motel that, thank the gods, provided good coffee, a selection of breads and pastries that included brioche and croissants, and a wide selection of decent preserves, though no proper marmalade. She sat there now, in a booth where she could watch the door, leafing through the documents she'd stolen from the mouse-creatures' flat.

She needed evidence, something she could take to the FBS and the Ministry. She couldn't carry out the Shining Gods' command by herself. She had been given the mission to exterminate these creatures, but she needed help, and to warn people.

_They have to have a plan_, she told herself, _or what's the point?_ What was the point of hiding among muggles, unless you wanted to take over their world? If you want to be left alone, or to leave people alone, you go far away from them, or stay among your own kind. These half-animals walked muggle streets, lived in muggle houses, had muggle jobs. They must have some kind of deep, subtle plan to take control.

The muggles couldn't defend themselves. That's why it was so necessary to stop them infiltrating the wizard world. Stolen magic was less powerful than rightful magic, and the presence of these false wizards weakened her world. Also, muggles were stupid, childish, quarrelsome, not to be trusted.

For a moment, she even considered letting these half-beasts carry out their plot. Perhaps they could make the muggles behave with proper humility. But no, nothing that was not pure, no bastard half-breed of who-knows-what, could ever be trusted.

There were other matters, too, that they could not be allowed to interfere with. The muggles known as Magneto and Storm, for instance, must be made to surrender their stolen magic. The speaking Golems -abominations, both – called the Thing and Colossus, needed to be destroyed. That stupid man Stark, with his garish metal suit, had to be stopped. He was a danger to himself and everyone else. The green ogre known as 'the Hulk' should be killed. Then there was the greatest menace of all: Umbridge knew little of the man they called 'the Doctor' -only that he had to be dealt with, and soon!

Well, there was an address-book here, which would probably lead her to more of these half-beasts. It was somewhere to start.

Rosalee had _woged_ on the spot when Nick had led Harry and Ron into the shop. He'd had to explain fast, because while _fuchsbauen_ weren't the most powerful of _wesen_, they were quick, cunning and dangerous when cornered. Though oddly enough, the thing that got Rosalee onside most quickly was Rons' approach.

"You tell your mate Monroe," he said with his big grin, "that he's got nothing to worry about. We're not interested in him unless he starts biting wizards!"

_That's his role_, Nick realised, _the good cop He's like a big lazy old dog who lies by the fire and lets you scratch his ears all day. But look sideways at somebody he cares about, and he'll be at your throat before you can blink!_

Rosalee had a list of local wizards with addresses that was a bit more precise than anything the FBS had been willing to tell the two Aurors due to 'invasion of privacy issues'. They decided to start at a small wizard-owned motel on the outskirts of the city.

As Harry followed the muggle sat-nav (it was a Stark one, so he knew it would work), Ron suddenly shook his head.

"I'm not sure about this, Harry. I reckon we should've stuck with Nick. Umbridge won't go near wizards if she can help it. She must know she's wanted."

"That's a point." Harry allowed. "But Umbridge is a grade-A muggle-phobic. I can't see her wanting to be around muggles if there's an alternative. We have to be thorough and we need to warn the local wizards anyway. Besides, just because the FBS know she's wanted doesn't mean every local wizard or witch will. One problem with having no wizard TV. It's hard to put somebody's face out there, not everybody reads papers."

"Most American wizards have a muggle TV." Ron pointed out.

"True, but the FBS like to keep things in-house, like the Ministry. Nobody back home ever saw Voldemorts' ugly mug on _Crimewatch_!" Harry reminded him.

"Good job, too." Ron opined. "His face would've cracked the screens!"

"Oh, those things are pretty tough." Harry pointed out. "It'd take something extreme to crack them. You know, like Snape smiling!"

The Bridge Motel (it was sited near one) declared itself a 'family' establishment and looked the part. Neat, clean and comfortable were the adjectives that sprang to mind as Harry parked outside the Reception building.

It wasn't a hot day, so the cold ferocity of the 'air curtain' at the doorway puzzled them for a moment, until the man at the desk remarked.

"Wands _and_ guns? Who are you guys?"

He was tallish, slightly overweight and looked in his mid-forties with a long, kindly face that currently seemed more than a little anxious.

The two Aurors produced their ID scrolls.

"Harry Potter, Ministry of Magic, UK. This is Ron Weasley. Can we have a quick word?"

The man stared at Harry. "_The _Harry Potter?" He asked.

"Don't!" Harry pleaded.

The man suddenly grinned. "I bet you get that a lot!" He said.

"Oh, yes!" Harry averred.

The man stuck out a hand. "Name's Jack Morrigan, I own the place. What do you need? I got a couple cabins vacant."

"Just some information." Harry said. "We're looking for this woman." He produced the photo of Umbridge. "She's British, and she may have been disguised."

Morrigan shook his head. "Disguise wouldn't work -there's a Reveal Charm in that air-curtain. But yeah, she was here. Three-four days back. I remember her 'cause we don't get many Brits here. She looked round the place, then before I could say 'Hi', she said 'I don't do business with magic thieves!' and walked out. Weird."

"You're muggle-born?" Ron asked.

Morrigan nodded. "Yeah. This woman one of those fanatics? She won't like it here, then, practically no Purebloods left this side of the ocean. Even the Halliwells are half-bloods. What's she done?"

"Murder, among other things." Ron told him. "Her name's Dolores Umbridge and she's a psychopath."

Morrigans' face went grim. "OK, I'll ask around. My wife knows everybody round here. You guys got mirrors?" They both nodded. "Right, I'll call if I hear anything.

"Sorry I was jumpy before. Thought you might be FBS."

Ron grinned. "Up to anything you shouldn't be?"

Morrigan shrugged and spread his hands. "Who the Hell knows? They got about twenty million regulations and they keep on coming up with new ones. Break one, and they're all over you. Is it like that over there?"

"Used to be." Harry allowed. "But the current Minster is a bit more easy-going, thankfully.

"Thanks for your help, Mr Morrigan. I'd advise you and the local wizard community to take precautions for a while. We'll let you know as and when we get her."

Morrigan laughed. "I don't know about this Umbridge lady, but if I knew Harry Potter was on my trail, I'd be about halfway to China by now!"

"At least," said Ron as they went back to the car, "he didn't ask for your autograph!"

"True." Harry said. "Not even 'for his wife or daughter'. The number of witches who seem to want my picture or autograph! Maybe I should have done that _Playwitch_ centrefold!"

"Uuurgh!" Ron groaned. "Mental image!"

"That's not what Ginny said." Harry stated. "When they asked me, she just said 'You'll need a full-body wax, luv, or they won't know you're naked!'"

Ron was still howling when Harry's mobile went off.

Nick had collected Hank and Monroe, after deciding not to tell Hank about the wizard dimension until he had the OK from Harry and Ron. He did have a quiet word with Monroe, though, to let him know he was off the hook as far as most wizards went.

"Right!" He told them as they sat over coffee. "This Umbridge, if it is her, and Harry and Ron think it is, seems to be targeting _wesen_. But not at random, she seems to want something specific, but we don't know what."

"If I was paranoid, and I could suddenly see what you see, Nick, I'd be thinking alien invasion or some kind of conspiracy." Hank noted. "If someone like that comes into the station-house -we've both seen it – saying the Illuminati or the Greys or whoever are after them, what do we do? What do we ask them for?"

"Evidence." Nick replied. "They usually have a ton, none of it worth a damn."

"Yeah, I know." Hank agreed. "But I'd guess this woman is out there looking for evidence, that she was searching for some in Carmichaels' apartment. Where would you find evidence about _wesen_, Monroe?"

"Three places I know of for sure." Monroe stated. "Nicks' trailer, Rosalees' shop, and the _eisbiber_ Lodge."

"Right!" Nick thought for a moment. "Carmichael wouldn't know about my trailer, so that's OK. D'you know if he was a customer of Rosalee?"

"I'll give her a call." Monroe said.

Nick went on. "The _eisbiber_ don't let just anyone into their Lodge, and it's pretty hard to find. I don't want to scare the poor guys, so we'll leave that for now. I doubt Carmichael knew about it anyway.

"So we're left with anything she might have found in the apartment."

Monroe put his cell down and said, "Carmichael did shop at Rosalees'. I told her to close up for the day and go over to my place. She has a key." He was blushing a little as he said this, and Hank and Nick exchanged a knowing glance.

"OK, so, what about Umbridge? Where else might anything she found at the apartment lead her?" Nick wanted to know.

"Well, the old guy sure liked books." Hank commented. "He had a lot in his apartment, I collected some receipts in case we needed them. Most of them from a place called Sattersons."

"I know the place!" Monroe said. "It's run by a _wesen_, a _l__ausenschlange_."

"Is it a _wesen_ shop?" Nick asked.

Monroe nodded. "Kinda. He has some stuff on _wesen_ history, mostly written by _wesen_ for _wesen_."

"Then he's a target." Nick decided. "Even if Umbridge hasn't made the connection yet, she will soon. Let's go!"

Once in the car, Nick asked Monroe. "You know this Satterson guy?"

"Yeah," Monroe replied, "I know him. He's a _lausenschlange_, and _lausenschlangen_ are bullies, but he's OK with me. Nobody bullies a _blutbad_. More than once, anyway."

"But he won't be too pleased to see us, right?" Hank asked.

"Well," Monroe mused, "he knows about Nick of course. Pretty much all of us around here do, and none of us want to upset _the Grimm_. Especially with all Nick's done for some of us.

"But if he does get difficult, just ask him about the Special Collection in the back!"

"The _wesen_ history?" Nick hazarded.

Monroe chuckled. "Nah, he keeps that out front, since it's mostly in the languages of where the _wesen_ who wrote it come from. The Special Collection is different. You see, _wesen_ pornography is pretty hard to come by, but a lot of our people don't like it and want their kids protected from it. If it got around he keeps it, there are quite few folks around here who'd happily torch the shop."

"_Wesen _pornography?" Hank slewed round in his seat to stare at Monroe, who shrugged.

"When we _woge_, we_ woge_ all over." He pointed out. "Some of us like to see 'the natural form'."

At that point, Nick brought the SUV to a sudden stop.

"Look!" He said.

They were a couple of shops down from the bookshop, and as the others looked they saw a dumpy-looking woman going in.

"Was that...?" Monroe asked.

"Umbridge, yeah." Hank growled. "What now, Nick?"

"We call for the Brits, and we wait." Nick pulled out his cell.

Captain Renard was busy with the endless paper-work when he became aware of a shadow looming over him. He looked up, wondering why anyone had come into his office without knocking. Then he wondered how this guy had got into the building at all. The man was tall and dark, with a weathered, slightly hangdog face. He wore a workshirt and jeans, under a long, expensive-looking stockmans' coat. He spoke in a quiet but firm voice.

"Captain Renard? My name's Harry Dresden. We need to talk."

"Mr Dresden?" Renard did his best to smile, but he was cold inside. "Don't you consult for the Chicago PD? You're a little out of your territory."

"Cut the crap, _Captain._" The emphasis made the title seem more like a threat. "We both know who I really work for, and who you do, as well.

"Now the White Council doesn't really care how much your self-styled 'Royal Families' interfere with muggle politics." Dresden went on. "We know who you claim to be descended from, and we're not impressed. Neither are about sixty per cent of the worlds' muggles, so you're on a hiding to nothing anyway.

"But if we choose to send some people to Portland to do a job, we don't expect to get a bunch of nosey muggles ferreting around in business that's not theirs. Harry Potter is one of the most powerful and skilled wizards in the world - you _don't_ want to piss him off. Nick Burkhardt is a good cop, he's a Grimm, and as of now, he's under wizard protection. Leave him alone, and pass the message on to your relatives."

Dresden leaned forward, his fists resting on Renards' desk, his gaze boring into the Captain. Renard was no fool, he knew Dresden had the soul-gaze and quickly dropped his own eyes. He got all the warning he needed from the wizards' tone as he said:

"While I'm here, you can tell your people to quit trying to smuggle _hexenbiesten_ into Hogwarts or Durmstrang, or we'll have to take steps. Remember, we have UNITs' number, and Dante Spardas'. And I've got yours, Captain!"

Renard was cautious enough not to look up until he was sure Dresden was gone.

Hank was impatient. "Nick, we should get in there and grab her before she kills somebody else!"

Nick shook his head. "We have to be careful, Hank. We don't know she's killed anyone here for sure, and we don't have any kind of warrant. We haven't seen her do anything criminal here, so we can't just wade in and roust her.

"But she is wanted in England. Once Harry and Ron identify her positively, we can arrest her and hand her over. We can always get her extradited later if we prove she killed Carmichael, but if we don't go by the book now, we'll never get a chance later."

Nick shared a glance with Monroe and knew they were thinking the same thing. Neither of them wanted to face a powerful witch without some kind of magical back-up.

Then it all became moot as a brilliant green flash lit the inside of the bookshop.

"What the...!" Yelled Hank.

Nick swung the car across the road, pointing its nose toward the shop. He and Hank jumped out, guns ready just as Umbridge -and it was her – came out.

"Police!" Nick barked. "Please stay where you are, ma'am, and keep your hands in sight!"

In answer she pointed a stick at Nick and cried "_Expelliarmus_!" Nicks' Glock was wrenched violently out of his hand to land at her feet. His trigger finger snapped with a crack and he yelled in pain.

Hank loosed off a shot on instinct, but the shock of events had thrown his aim and the bullet shattered the store window. "_Stupefy_!" Umbridge shouted, and a streak of red light shot out of her wand to strike Hank between the eyes. He went down like he'd been pole-axed.

As another car screeched to a halt a few yards away, Monroe piled out of the back of Nicks' SUV in full _woge_. He'd seen his friends hurt, and his _blutbad_ temper was up. Umbridge gave a scream of rage as she saw him, then yelled "_Avada Kedavra_!"

The flash was green, this time, but Monroe was fast, swinging the car door across himself to block the curse. Even so, the door was slammed back against him with enough force to knock him flat.

Then Harry and Ron were out of their car – the one that had just pulled up – and pointing wands. Ron fired a jet of red light from his, which Umbridge blocked with a silvery shield.

"Pack it in, Dolores!" Harry shouted. "You can't take both of us!"

The womans' face was a study in shock. "Potter?" She gasped. Then she gave another shriek of pure rage, turned on the spot and disappeared with a boom!

"Bollocks!" Harry swore, then made for Nick.

Monroe was already up, kneeling beside Hank as Ron joined him.

"Is he alive or dead?" Monroe wanted to know.

"What did she hit him with?" Ron asked.

"Some kind of red laser." Monroe replied.

"Stun hex, then." Ron nodded, then pointed his wand at Hank. "_Ennervate_!"

Hanks' eyes flew open, and he sat up. "What the _fuck_?" He exploded.

"In a minute." Ron told him.

Harry had gone over to Nick. "You OK, mate?"

Nick was hurting, but holding it together. "She yanked my gin out of my hand just by...!"

Harry nodded. "Disarming hex, use it myself a bit. Broke your finger, right? Give it here. _Episkey_!"

The pain got worse for a second, then stopped. Nick flexed his finger, it was as good as new. "How'd you do that?" He demanded.

"Magic." Harry told him. "Bugger. We've got an audience!"

The street was a quiet one, but nevertheless a crowd of about a dozen had gathered. They seemed unsure about whether to panic or applaud. Harry had seen this before with muggles suddenly confronted with magic. Half of them taking photos on their phones, the other half looking for directors, cameras and Brad Pitt!

Then a black Chevy Suburban -the kind that shouts "FBI" to the heavens -arrived out of nowhere. A man and a woman got out, both in black suits. The man approached the crowd, calling in authoritative tones, "Everyone just stay where you are! We'll need to take statements."

The woman approached Harry. It was hard to tell her age, but she was tall, with a slender but good figure, a sensual face and raven hair.

"Mr Potter, sir?" She asked, her normally husky tones rendered more so by what Nick could only guess was awe. "We're from the FBS, Auror Department. I'm Special Agent Addams, that's Agent Callaway. How can we assist you, sir?"

"Well, you can start by calling me Harry, I work for a living, too!" He told her with a grin.

Her demeanour changed immediately. Not a whit less respectful, but more confident, perhaps a little flirtatious.

"Well in that case, Harry, I'm Wednesday. What happened here? And what do you do when you're not working, _mon vieux_?"

Harrys' grin broadened for a moment – he knew all about Wednesday Addams! Then he got down to business. "Nick?" He asked.

"There was a green flash from inside the store." Nick recalled. "The she came out and Hank and I threw down on her. She disarmed me, Hank got off a shot that went through the store window and she hit him with some red light. Monroe tried to interfere and she fired green light at him, but he got behind the car door. Then you and Ron got in."

Harry nodded and turned to Special Agent Addams. "Two Killing Curses, two Stun Hexes, a Disarm, a Shield Charm and a Disapparation." He told her briskly.

She consulted a pocket mirror. "That tallies." She acknowledged. "Give me a minute."

She went over to where Callaway was keeping an eye on the crowd, putting on a pair of dark glasses as she did so. "Ladies and gentlemen!" She called. "My partner will be taking your statements shortly, but could I ask you all to look at this for a moment?"

She held up a small, silver cylinder and there was a flash like a camera. "Thank you." Wednesday said. "Please be patient and Agent Callaway will speak to all of you."

By this time, Hank, Ron and Monroe had joined Harry and Nick. As Special Agent Addams rejoined them, Hank asked: "OK, so we got wizards, but don't tell me you guys are MiB?"

"MiB?" Ron asked, puzzled.

"Muggle movie – _Men in Black_ – and no we're not, Detective Griffin." Wednesday said.

"But you've got the flashy memory thing!" Hank protested, half-seriously.

Wednesday grinned. "As Harry here could tell you, Memory Charms are delicate things, and hard to do with groups." She held up the cylinder so they could all see the Stark Industries logo. "These are neuralysers – electronic memory adjusters. Mr Stark developed them for SHIELD and UNIT, but lately he's been selling them to the FBS as well. It's making life a lot easier for us.

"Harry, have you confirmed that it is Dolores Umbridge?"

"Yes, it was definitely her. I couldn't mistake that face!" Harry, for some reason, was rubbing at his right hand as he spoke.

Wednesday nodded. "I'll put out a BOLO. I'm also going to send a message to the Stephens family. They had a run-in with Umbridge back in 97, so they ought to know she's back, just in case!

"Detective Burkhardt, you're going to need to call this in, I know. Agent Callaway will let you have your witness statements shortly, please wait until we've left."

Wednesday turned to Harry, and her voice became a positive purr. "Once back to the office, I need to write to my old pen-friend Molly, tell her how very jealous I am, and chastise her for letting her daughter steal you away before I got a look at you!"

"Shut up." Harry told her, grinning.

She blew him a kiss as she left. Ron chuckled, "You always were Mr Smooth with the women, Harry!"

"Two words." Harry replied, "Abby. Sciuto."

"Oh, don't!" Ron groaned. "You get the sexy older women, I get the barking mad Goths! No comparison!"


	4. Chapter 4

**The Wicked Witch in the West**

**4. **___"We don't need a war."_

The unfortunate store-owner was, as they had guessed, quite dead, flat on his back in front of an empty rack with an expression of fear and pain etched on his features.

Monroe looked grim. "Nick, that was the rack he kept the _wesen_ histories in!"

"What's she done with them?" Hank wanted to know. "She wasn't carrying anything but her purse!"

"If by purse you mean handbag, then she could've done one of two things." Harry replied. "Either the bag's got an Extending Charm on it that lets it hold more than Mary Poppins could put in hers, or she shrank the books to the size of matchboxes."

"Either which way," Ron pointed out, "she now has a shedload of information about _wesen_. Not good."

"We need to plan." Nick said. "But not here and not right now."

They called it in. They got the uniforms on door-to-door. They got the Crime Scene people to go over the shop. The ME came to remove the body. Ron helped Monroe to discreetly dispose of the Special Collection. Back at Headquarters, they did the paperwork and saw to the witness statements Agent Callaway had collected.

Then they went to Monroes' where an anxious Rosalee wanted to hear all about it.

"Right!" Harry said. "I've got to brief the FBS and the Ministry in on all this, so if you'll excuse me?"

He went off into the next room, taking a small folding mirror out of his pocket as he went.

"Mirrors?" Hank asked, and Ron nodded.

"Wizards have always used magic mirrors to talk to each other, but they used to be in pairs that could only reach each other, like Vanishing Cabinets. But when Kingsley took over as Minister, he told the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries to get off their academic bums and start developing things that would benefit ordinary wizards!"

Ron took a similar mirror out of his own pocket. "As long as you know a persons' name, you can call their mirror. I can talk to Harry for free, as long as I like, because we're both on WeasleyTalk, but it costs three Knuts a minute to talk to my mate Neville, because he's on OllivanderNet.

"I'm on a contract, so I'll be getting a new mirror next month, one that can connect to the Wizard Web."

"That's your version of the internet, right?" Hank guessed.

"Yeah." Ron replied. "Took them a while to get it going, though. I mean, there's always plenty of house-elves looking for work, so servers aren't a problem. But it took a long while to get a big enough breeding colony of Acromantula."

"Acromantula?" Rosalee asked.

"Giant spiders," Ron replied with a grimace, "to make the actual web."

"You guys have wizard TV as well?" Monroe wanted to know.

It was Harry who answered, coming back into the room. "Not yet. There's a lot of Muggle-born and Muggle-raised wizards around, and they keep talking about high-definition. The problem is getting a scrying-glass that's hi-def and big enough for a family to watch!"

He become businesslike. "Right, it seems the White Council have taken an interest, and have told the various Ministries and Bureaux around the world that _wesen_ are to be considered Muggles for all intents and purposes. They've tipped off UNIT, who don't really care as long as you're not aliens! They've also contacted Sanctuary to make sure that _wesen_ aren't treated as Abnormals – I take it that neither of you two wants to be shipped off to Hollow Earth, right?

"Good, so that just leaves our current issue. Monroe, how much useful – and by that I mean current – intel could Umbridge get from those books?"

Monroe shook his head. "Kinda hard to say, Harry. I mean, she's gonna find out just how many different kinds of us there are. But most of us just live as individuals or in family groups, so apart from figuring out the kinds of jobs some of us like to do, it won't help her too much."

"Hang on, though," Nick was worried. "The books will tell her about the _eisbiber_ Lodges, and the fact that _seelengut _tend to live in groups. That makes them vulnerable, easier to find."

"You're right!" Monroe realised. "The _coyotl_ live in packs, too, and the _lowen_ in prides."

"Them I'm not so concerned about." Nick allowed. "Nobody in their right mind – witch or not -would take on a _lowen_, and she can kill every _coyotl _she can find for all of me!

"I'll speak to Bud about the _eisbibers_ and call in at that _seelengut _church to give them a heads-up."

Harry nodded. "That's about all we can do for now. We've given the local wizards a warning, so they'll contact us if she tries to hide out there. Tomorrow, we'll just have to look at the Muggle hotels and motels, see if we can pick up a trail."

_They'd sent Potter after her!_ Umbridge was both furious and scared. Out of all the wizards they could have sent, they'd chosen Potter!

Umbridge knew the legend of the Boy Who Lived, of course she did. Some lucky accident had prevented He Who Must Not Be Named from killing the child, long ago. Nearly seventeen years later, Potter had cold-bloodedly murdered the self-styled Dark Lord. Umbridge had never been a Death-Eater, they were a criminal organisation and she was a law-abiding Government official, after all. As fas as she was concerned, Lord Voldemort was a brilliant but misguided man who, if he had but taken the right path to power, would have become a Minister of Magic Umbridge would have been proud to serve under. She still thrilled at the stories of Voldemorts' courage on that long-ago day at Hogwarts. His allies fallen, his magical defences stripped away, he had still defied all the forces arrayed against him, until Potter struck him down from beneath his Invisibility Cloak.

Umbridge had seen what Potter could do to people, as well. She recalled a chubby-faced, shy, sweet-natured teenager called Neville, whom she had barely recognised as the rangy, grim-faced young Auror who had arrested her. Potter had turned a kindly, gentle youth into a cold-hearted killing machine.

Potter had been there at her 'trial'. He had stood in the witness box and said that her defence -that she had only been following orders – was worthless. That it had not served some people called 'Nazis' at a place called 'Nuremberg'. Umbridge had learned afterwards what this meant and it was the final blow, that the Wizengamot, a _wizard_ court, had used _Muggle_ precedent to convict her!

Then there were the legends – legends gathered around Potter like carrion birds round a corpse. That he owned all three of the Deathly Hallows; the Cloak to come upon his prey unaware, the Stone to summon their victims to accuse them, the Elder Wand to strike them down. That he had a network of allies and agents throughout both the wizard and Muggle worlds. That he had spoken, as an equal, with both Stephen Strange and Viktor von Doom. That he had travelled in time and space with the almost-mythical 'Doctor'.

Umbridge took little stock in legends. The Hallows were a childrens' tale, a cautionary fable about making choices. Strange held himself aloof from both wizards and Muggles – defending the Earth from menaces Umbridge could not contemplate without shuddering. Doom she knew little of, and cared less -the Muggle ruler of a tiny, far-off land was less than nothing to her. But that Potter might have spies and allies everywhere, she could believe! As a teenager, he had set up a secret society under her very nose, and had outmanoeuvred her with the skill of a man twice his age!

But Potter could be dealt with. Obtaining Muggle money was easy – a matter of walking into one of their banks with a slip of paper, a simple _imperius _and not asking for too much at one time. She could do the same to Muggles on the street, forcing them to access those machines and withdraw money, but that was riskier. With money, she could obtain services. Some Muggles would do anything for ridiculously small amounts. Umbridge had already made arrangements, and Potter would be gone from here soon enough, one way or another!

In the meantime, the snake-beast she had killed today had told her something important. That there was someone else like her in this Muggle place. Umbridge now knew what she had become; a Grimm – a hunter of the beast-people. She knew there was another such person in Portland, and she knew his name and where to find him!

The hotel Ron and Harry were staying in had a basement car park, which at around six in the morning should have been empty, except for the cars. However, both men were trained and experienced, and both felt the hairs on their necks rise. Wordlessly, they moved apart, splitting the attention of anyone who might be watching. It had been years since they'd needed words in a tactical situation.

There were six of them, wearing colours. Harry was not well-enough briefed on Portlands' gang situation to recognise the organisation, but from the general seediness of their appearance, it wasn't a major outfit. The leader spoke, only a slight quaver in his voice.

"We got a message. Leave town today, or get hurt. Your choice!"

In situations like this, Harry let Ron do the talking. The big man heaved a sigh and shook his head.

"Look mate," he said in a friendly tone, "we've had a long day and a short night, right? My mate, here, he gets tetchy when he's short on sleep. Me, I just want to get to work and get another cup of coffee down me, so I'm not my usual sunny self.

"So how about you shower just fuck off back where you came from and forget all about us, eh? Because if you don't, things will get messy, I promise!"

Weapons came out on the spot. _Bugger!_ Harry thought, and got to work.

The leader had a butterfly knife, which he probably thought looked cool as he flicked it open, but he held it way too high and Harry evaded his swipe, grabbed the wrist and twisted hard. The man yelled in pain and dropped his knife. Harry kicked him solidly in the groin and let him fall. The next had some nunchuks, and had gone into a kung-fu pose that Harry broke with a brutal krav maga strike. His final opponent held a revolver, but his aim was unsteady. With a sigh, Harry pulled out his Glock. His hands were rock-steady as he took aim. "Just don't!" He growled.

In contrast to Harry's nervous energy, Ron moved with the lazy grace of a big man who is aware of his physical superiority and doesn't intend to break an unnecessary sweat. He extended and locked his baton with a single deft motion, and used it with the skill of a fencing master. A precise strike to the shoulder left one assailant with a useless right arm, an equally exact blow to the knee put another on the ground, while a jab to the solar plexus laid the third out cold. Ron turned, saw Harrys' situation, dropped the baton and pulled his own gun.

"Drop it, sunshine!" He warned. "I hate these bloody things, but that doesn't mean I can't or won't use it!"

The gang-banger considered the odds for a whole second before raising his hands, dropping to his knees, slowly putting the gun on the ground and then sliding it over toward Harry.

"You've a few brains at least." Harry told him. "Let's see just how many. A little chat is in order, I think."

"You didn't bring them in?" Hank asked.

Harry shrugged. "Couldn't face the paper-work, mate. Also, we've got bigger fish to fry!"

"We gave them a bollocking." Ron pointed out. "Between that and the kicking they got, I bet they've learned a few manners."

"And it was Umbridge who hired them?" Nick wanted to be sure.

"Definitely." Harry said. "That prat was too scared to lie to us. It was her, all right."

"But why?" Hank wanted to know. "She musta known those guys couldn't take you! You are wizards, after all!"

"Ah, that was what she was counting on." Harry told him. "A few years ago, Ron and I would have had two choices. Stay Muggle, and get the crap kicked out of us, or use magic, and get arrested by the FBS for using magic against Muggles. That's against wizard law all over the world, even for Aurors, unless it's life or death.

So Umbridge would reckon that either we'd end up in hospital, or wizard jail.

"But for the last few years, I've been reforming the British Auror Department. I've got people in - Muggles – to train Aurors in unarmed combat and other Muggle techniques. Ron and I can both shoot, we can use various close weapons, and we know krav maga.

"See, not all Dark wizards are Pureblooded, anti-Muggle fanatic terrorists. Some of 'em are just common or garden villains. One bloke, Mundungus Fletcher, had been a thief all his life, but he decided to upgrade from a little light burglary to home invasion. How he did it was to hire a couple of Muggle thugs. He'd get them into the wizard homes, that Muggles usually can't find, and use them to intimidate the families while he cleaned the place out. Most wizards aren't much on physical violence, and they knew they'd be in trouble for using magic, so they couldn't do anything. Fletcher would even load the swag onto a Muggle truck so the Aurors couldn't chase him. Wasn't a damn thing we could do!"

"So what happened?" Nick asked.

Harry grinned. "I called in an old friend. The Groundskeeper at Hogwarts – the wizard school Ron and I went to – and deputised him. He's called Hagrid, and he's not allowed to use magic, but it didn't matter in this case because he's half-Giant. He's eight feet tall and nearly as wide and you do _not_ fuck about with him!

"But by that time the idea had started to spread, so I felt the Aurors needed to be able to operate in both worlds effectively. Hence the hand-to-hand training. The guns are a recent thing, I'm too much the Englishman to like the things, but needs must when the Devil drives, as they say. Some Dark wizards have started to take up with Muggle organised crime -drugs especially -so things got more dangerous."

"But we've learned something else." Ron pointed out. "Somehow, Umbridge has got access to Muggle money."

"Well, we knew she must have" Harry replied. "What we need to do is figure out how!"

Ron's mobile phone warbled. He pulled it out, looked at the screen, then grinned at Harry. "this might just be our answer!" He announced, before taking the call.

"Hiya, Penelope! Been waiting on you, luv!...You have? Well I knew you would...How?...Well no, of course you don't, but I bet I do...Trade secret, pet. Are you sure it's her?...That makes sense, she wouldn't realise...No, we're good here, we've got back-up...It's only been two so far, Penelope, so tell Hotch to stay off the starting blocks. There won't be any more if we can help it!...OK, you too. Bye!"

He put the phone away, then said. "Nick, you need to be checking the local banks. That was Agent Garcia, she's a techie-type attached to the FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit, and she's been looking out for things for us. Seems that someone has been scamming Muggle banks by passing off signed slips of paper as cheques! That could only be done with magic – probably an Imperious Curse on the cashier. Not too much at any one bank, or too often, which is why it's not shown up until Penelope looked for it. But Dolores didn't know, or care, about the video surveillance in the banks, and we've got her on Candid Camera!"

"Way to go!" Nick exulted. "We'll get right on it! With that evidence, we can put out a BOLO of our own, then she won't have too many places left to hide."

Harry was shaking his head and looking at Ron. "I don't know!" He said. "Hermione, Penelope, Abby, Helen. What is it with you and clever women, Ron?"

"What is is with you and the tomboys?" Ron countered, unfazed. "Our Ginny, Ziva, the Croft woman, and that ginger Scottish bit, the model, what was her name?"

"Amy Pond." Harry said. "And _she _wasdifferent. There's something familiar about her, something I can't place.

"Never mind, we need to get onto the banks!"

They did, and found three local banks who had been 'visited'. The cashiers universally had only a dim memory of the English lady who came in to cash a cheque. That was odd in itself, as English visitors to Portland were not all that common.

A troll of local motels turned up a 'Miss Bridges', described as 'a nice British lady who had bad dreams sometimes', and who had checked out that afternoon, citing a family emergency.

"Which," opined the teenager who had given them the information, "was kinda weird, 'cause she told me her family were dead. Dad didn't know that, so he never thought."

Dead end. They'd done all they could, for now. The next move was Umbridges', and it was not long in coming.

As they got back into the squad room, Wu strolled over. "Guy left a message for you, Nick."

It was a plain envelope, addressed to "Detective Nicholas Burkhardt" in a loopy Italic script Harry recognised at once.

"That's from Umbridge, I recognise her handwriting!"

Nick opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of commonplace paper, covered in the same writing.

_Dear Detective Burkhardt,_

_I was given your name by someone who was, by then, incapable of lying. It seems we share a common enemy, or enemies. I refer, of course, to the half-beasts known as 'wesen'._

_We can, I believe, achieve much in our common fight. You have the advantage of having been born a Grimm, whilst I have only just been so blessed. I, on the other hand, was born a witch and as such have powers beyond anything you, as a Muggle, could imagine. Your experience, matched with my power, could achieve a great deal in this war._

_We must meet. At eight o'clock this evening, I will be on the loading dock of the abandoned motor-car factory close to the river. You will, of course, come alone. I am contacting you as a Grimm, not as a police officer, so you will require no 'back-up', as I believe the phrase is._

_One more thing. Should you encounter a young Englishman with black hair, green eyes and a scar on his forehead, DO NOT approach him! His name is Potter, and he is a very dangerous undesirable. You would be advised, for all our sakes, to shoot him on sight._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Dolores J Umbridge (Miss)_

Nick passed the note around, then said to Harry. "You don't strike me as a dangerous undesirable!"

"You haven't known him as long as I have!" Ron pointed out.

Nick parked up carefully and covered the last half-mile on foot. Harry had told him that many witches and wizards had only a vague idea of the capacity of a Muggle car, so approaching on foot should convince Umbridge he was alone. She was just where she had said she would be. Nick was careful to approach slowly, hands in view. The evening was still light, so the moment of danger should come soon.

It did, Nick stopped as soon as he saw her posture change. Her wand came out and levelled at him, the point trembled a little, but not enough for her to miss him.

"You!" She hissed. "You were there yesterday. You're working for Potter!"

Nick shook his head. "No, Ms Umbridge, I'm working _with_ Harry. We're looking for you to help you. Something happened to you, didn't it? You're seeing things differently, aren't you? And it hurts, right? Because you're not meant to be seeing those things. You have to let us help you."

"No!" She shrieked. "No! I have to help you! Shake off Potters' curse, you Muggle fool! He wants you to surrender, to abandon the war. He wants half-breeds to take over your world the way he let them take over mine! You don't know! That magic-stealing whore Granger has made laws – _laws_ - to force us to treat Centaurs, Goblins, Giants, even house-elves, as if they were real people!

"Potter will do that to your world, force you to recognise these animals, these _wesen_ as human, or equal to humans!"

Nick sighed. "Dolores," he said quietly, reasonably, "there isn't a war. We don't want a war. We don't need a war. The _wesen_, they just want to be let alone. You need help, Dolores. You have a brain injury. If we don't get you to a...a Healer soon, you're going to die."

"Oh, no!" She shook her head. "Oh no, Mr Muggle! It's you who's going to die! _Avada..."_

The concrete post beside her exploded into dust and chips. A second later, Nick heard the sound of a shot, just as Umbridge screamed and dropped her wand. There was the whine of a ricochet and a puff of dust as the slug buried itself in a wall nearby.

_My God! _Nick thought. _That man can shoot!_ From more than two hundred yards, Ron had hit the post at precisely the correct angle to scare Umbridge without hurting her and also ensure the ricochet went somewhere safe. He started toward her, then heard Harry yell. "Nick! Behind you!"

_Every time I use this thing, it seems to have shrunk!_ Harry mused. Actually, the Invisibility Cloak that had swamped a skinny eleven-year-old was still more than adequate to cover the six-foot man he had become. The problem was Monroe, who was also a big man, as big as Ron. Fortunately, the _blutbad_ was as fussy about personal hygiene as Harry himself, so the proximity, while awkward, was not actually unpleasant.

Just in case, the two hung back while Nick tried to talk Umbridge down. Then they saw her lift her wand and almost threw the cloak off, but then they heard Rons' shot, and both automatically turned to the abandoned crane where he'd taken his position. When they turned back it was to see five black-clad figures, rushing down at Nick, brandishing, of all things, _scythes_!

"Reapers!" Monroe hissed. Harry yelled a warning to Nick, who spun, dropped and rolled in one move, coming up with his gun out to put two rounds into the lead Reaper. Then the handle of a scythe knocked his Glock away and he and another Reaper became locked in a vicious, head-banging grapple.

Harry had tossed the Cloak as Monroe, fully _blutbad_ now, flung himself on another Reaper, taking the black-coated figure down hard, fast and bloody. The remaining two hesitated, and were lost. Ones' head shattered as Ron fired again, the other crumpled to the ground under Harrys' Killing Curse. A few seconds later, the neck of the last cracked sickeningly as Nick applied an expert twist.

It was then that Harry realised Umbridge was gone.

Harry and Ron shrank the dead Reapers to the size of mice and dropped them into a dumpster.

"By the time the rats are done, no trace." Harry said, matter-of-factly. Nick figured the Englishman had done some wet work before, but knew better than to say anything. Instead he had explained about the Reapers, and their mission to exterminate Grimms.

"There's no way Umbridge could have hired these blokes, or set them on somehow?" Ron asked.

Nick shook his head. "As soon as they realised she knew about them, they'd have killed her. This was something else, something that's been going on forever between Reapers and Grimms.

"But that still leaves us wondering where Umbridge went!"

Nobody had any answers for that, so they headed for Headquarters.

"We might as well," Hank suggested, "look through what we've got. Something might ring a bell."

By the time Renard got back to his apartment his anger had cooled. But not much, not enough to stop him making an immediate call.

"Who," he demanded, "sent Reapers to my city without my authority? Now of all times?"

The voice on the other end was cold. "You would do well not to speak too loudly of your authority. Your protection of a Grimm is making people ask questions. Especially since this Grimm is now working with wizards."

"Wizards who disposed of your Reapers without a hint of exertion!" Renard stormed. "Wizards who by now know everything the Grimm can tell them about Reapers, and about us!" He forced calmness into his voice. "You are forgetting where the real threat lies. I was visited, _in my office_, yesterday by Harry Dresden himself. The Council knows about our attempts to infiltrate the Wizard schools. They probably know everything you're planning or thinking.

"This Grimm was never an ordinary Grimm, and now he has wizard friends, wizard protection. More than that. I'm not so cut off that I couldn't find out all about Harry Potter, who he is, what he's done, who his friends are. Do you _want_ the Avengers coming down on us? The White Council? The Brotherhood of the Sword?

"We are vulnerable, more vulnerable than we've ever been. The world has changed, people have seen things...There are organisations now we cannot infiltrate, do not own. Chew on the ends of your old plots if you must, but do not endanger my position here! I still know enough to bring you all down with me!"

Renard cut off the call, and himself with it. He'd burned his bridges now, he guessed. Well and good, because survival in this new age might well depend on separation.

Monroe was by now so much a part of Nicks' image that nobody raised an eyebrow as Nick checked him in. His _blutbad_ friend had as good an eye and mind as anyone else Nick knew, and right now they needed all hands on deck. Umbridge was in the wind, increasingly irrational, and none of them could come close to guessing what she might do next.

As they were settling down, Wu came by. "You guys pulling a _grrroink_ all-nighter?" He asked. "You've been _squeee_ working this one hard, _graaark_!"

"You entering a hog-calling contest?" Hank demanded, half-amused, half-annoyed.

"What are _oiink_ you talking about?" Wu seemed genuinely puzzled.

Harry was on his feet. With a glance around to make sure the room was empty, he whipped out his wand and pointed it at Wu. "_Legilimens!_" He snapped.

Wu's face went blank, Harry stared hard at him for a moment, then said quietly, "_Oblivius_."

Wu blinked and looked confused.

"You look knackered, mate." Harry said. "I'd call it a night, if I were you."

Wu nodded vaguely and left. Harry leaned over the desk.

"Umbridge was here!" He spoke low and fast. "She put Wu under an Imperius Curse and made him call up a file. Your file, Nick! She knows everything about you, your shift pattern, where you live...!"

Nick was on his feet and heading for the door.

"Juliet!" He said over his shoulder.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Wicked Witch in the West**

**5 **_You're in my toolbox now_

The lights were on downstairs, Nick noted. All the lights. His instinct was to charge straight in, but he was a cop, he knew better. He waited tensely while Harry slipped on a silvery cloak and vanished. He was quick getting back.

"They're in the kitchen." He said. "Juliet is sitting at the table, Umbridge is behind her, watching both doors, with her wand to Juliets' head. There's no way we can just bang in there and still be sure Juliets' safe."

"We should've brought that rifle." Ron said. "I could've taken her from here with it easy! I'd have to get too close for safety to try with a pistol."

"I don't want that anyway." Nick stated. "Juliets' been through a lot, lately, and seeing somebodys' head spattered all over the kitchen won't help!"

Just then, a small silvery form floated through the kitchen window without breaking the glass and trotted over to them. It was a cat, a rather fluffy, overweight cat.

"That's Umbridges' Patronus!" Harry hissed. "Her guardian spirit."

The cat Patronus sat down in front of them, curled its tail round itself, then spoke in Umbridges' voice.

"We need to have a conversation. Please come in by the front door, and do not be foolish. I am unlikely to kill my hostage so early in negotiations, but she would not find a Cruciatus Curse to her liking. You have five minutes."

The cat turned away and went back the way it had come. Harry and Nick shared a look; Umbridge held all the cards for now, so there wasn't really much choice. Nick figured Umbridge was crazy, she'd slip up at some point. Harry knew that he had on his side the best chess player in the wizard world -if there was a way to turn the tables, Ron would find it!

They trooped in through the front door and lined up across the room from Umbridge and Juliet. Nick looked at Juliet first. She was wide-eyed and pale-lipped, staring vacantly into the middle distance; _either in shock or under a _spell, he decided. He spoke without preamble.

"We don't want to hurt you, Miss Umbridge, but you're up against two cops, two wizards and a _blutbad_. If anything happens to Juliet, there is no scenario where you walk away from this!"

Umbridge gave him a smile that would have been motherly had it not been sickeningly false.

"Hush, dear, I'm not talking to you at the moment." She said, then turned to Harry. "Mr Potter, it's been so long since we had a nice chat. You remember those evenings we used to spend together? What I tried to teach you?"

"I must not tell lies." Harry growled. "Except I was telling the truth, and you know it!"

"Yes, you were, on that occasion." Umbridge allowed. "But that hasn't stopped you lying and cheating and murdering since, has it, dear?

"You could have arrested Tom Riddle -he was outnumbered and surrounded - but you murdered him instead. A Killing Curse in the back, I was told, from under that cloak of yours? You spread lies about the things you've done, the famous Muggles you know, the things you're doing to make our world better.

"And all the time you and that Granger bitch are undermining us. Centaurs teach at Hogwarts! Goblins walk around the Ministry! House elves who won't work without pay!

"But that isn't enough for you, is it? You corrupt your own world first, then you start on the poor, defenceless Muggles. You're going to let the beasts take over, aren't you? And when they have, they'll be your private army, won't they?

"But I know, I can see! Now I know how much you love Muggles, Mr Potter, so what we'll do is this. Either you take your Imperius Curse off Detective Burkhardt here within the next two minutes, or I kill his woman in front of him. That should break the curse, don't you think?"

"It very well might." Nick cut in. "Though I don't really understand how curses work. Only I'm not under any curse, and if you harm Juliet, I _will_ kill you!

"I've killed _wesen_ and Reapers when I had to. A witch will just be one more box ticked."

"Really?" Umbridge purred. "I thought you were the Grimm who protected _wesen_?"

"I do." Nick asserted. "The good ones, the decent ones who just want to be left alone, to make a life like the rest of us. But _wesen_ aren't so very different from the rest of us. Some are good, some are bad. I'm sort of uniquely qualified to deal with the bad ones. Just like Harry here is qualified to deal with wizards and witches who go wrong."

"No!" Umbridge almost screamed. "There are no good ones! Nothing impure can be good! The half-breeds, the misbegotten must be got rid of! The God told me this, gave me this gift so I could! Could find them! Could exterminate them. He told me to! 'Exterminate', he said, 'exterminate'!"

Harrys' face was a study in shock. Nick realised why; _Exterminate_ had been the war-cry of the Daleks, the robot aliens who had invaded Earth a few years ago. Nick wondered what, if any, part Harry had played in those events. Probably a more active one than he had, cowering in the cellar with Juliet.

"A Dalek!" Harry barked. "Dolores, that was no god talking to you! It was a Dalek! What it wanted to exterminate was _you_! You, me, Nick, everyone!

"Believe me, Dolores, I've seen Daleks, up close and personal. I've faced them in battle. They only care about one kind of purity -the purity of a universe full of nothing but Daleks!"

"YOU MUST NOT TELL LIES!" Umbridge was howling now. "I'll carve those words on your chest, Harry Potter, if carving them into your hand wasn't enough! Now tell him the truth!"

Juliet stirred, then looked at Harry and Nick.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm running out of time."

Then she lifted her hand with a curious gesture. Umbridges' wand flew from her hand, and before she could react, a jet of red light from Rons' wand struck her in the chest. She crumpled to the floor without a sound.

'Juliet' got to her feet, then bent over the table as if she was going to throw up. Her hair thickened and darkened, her figure became fuller as she shrank a inch or so in height. Then she straightened.

"The trouble with Polyjuice Potion," said Special Agent Wednesday Addams, "is that it doesn't last very long, even in quite high doses."

"Where's Juliet?" Nick demanded hoarsely.

"Upstairs, in bed, sound asleep." Wednesday told him. "She won't know anything's happened." She looked shrewdly at Nick. "I think you could do with a nights' sleep as well, Detective!"

"Who gets the bust?" Hank wanted to know. "This woman killed two people here in Portland!"

"It was Mr Weasley who took her down," Wednesday pointed out, "so for now she belongs to the Ministry of Magic. We'll sort the rest out later but right now, Ron, wake her up and arrest her. We'll keep her in custody while they work things out upstairs."

Ron bent over Umbridge and revived her, then hauled her none too gently to her feet.

"Dolores Jane Umbridge, I am placing you under arrest for the wilful murder of Azkaban Guard Jeremy Littleton. You do not have to say anything, but it will harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, anything on which you later rely in court."

"And we get to go to bed early, for a change!" Monroe said.

They met next day, around lunchtime, in a spacious office behind a sleepy-looking department store which was actually a front for the Portland Office of the FBS. Round the table were Harry, Ron, Wednesday, Monroe, Rosalee and Nick. The first thing Nick wanted to know was why Hank hadn't been invited.

"I'm sorry," Wednesday told him, "but rules are rules. Agent Callaway is adjusting Detective Griffins' memories as we speak. He'll remember co-operating with two British police officers in the hunt for a serial killer. He'll remember that you got the drop on her in a hostage situation involving your girlfriend, Nick, and he'll know she's been sent back to England. Even if she does get extradited back here, both Washington and New York have prior claims on her.

"Despite everything, it's still too soon to have too many Muggles knowing about our world. We'll have to trust the rest of you not to let anything slip to Hank."

"But why aren't we getting memory-zapped?" Monroe wanted to know.

"Well, Nick here is the only active Grimm we know of." Harry explained. "I made a case to the Ministry, and it seems the White Council made one too, for keeping him in the know. He's a special circumstance, like UNIT or Tony Stark, somebody it's better to have knowing than not knowing."

"Gee, thanks!" Nick remarked. "At least I'm in good company!"

"Oh, the best!" Wednesday chuckled. "As for Mr Monroe and Ms Calvert here, well, Rosalee already knew about us, and to Obliviate her would rob the local magical community of a useful service. But we may have a use for both of you.

"It seems that there is another species of _wesen_ well known in our world. You call them _hexenbiesten_, we call them Hags. We gather that they're considered rare among Muggle _wesen_, but we have more of them, and while most of them are harmless mischief-makers, it seems others aren't. There seems to be a group, of which these Hags are a part, who are up to something. It may be that Mr Monroe and Ms Calvert can help us find out what. You might be part of that too, Nick."

"If you need us, you know where to find us." Monroe stated, after exchanging a quick, meaningful glance with Rosalee.

"What about Umbridge?" Nick demanded.

Wednesday grimaced. "We've all been trumped." She growled. "Umbridge admitted last night to killing a 'beast-man in uniform' while escaping from Azkaban. He's been identified as Lieutenant Kurt Hissler, a crewman aboard the _Valiant_. Everyone knew he'd been killed by a wizard escapee -it was clearly a Killing Curse -we just didn't know who, until now.

"But the Memorandum of Understanding between the White Council and UNIT Command gives them overriding jurisdiction in crimes involving UNIT personnel. They took her away this morning, to a Containment Facility only three people have ever escaped from. If she's found guilty, she'll be sent to an off-world facility run by the SGC, place called Salusa Secundus.

"She says the man she killed had the face of an eagle. Mean anything, Nick?"

Nick nodded. "_Steinadler._ No surprise to find one of them in UNIT."

"Just out of interest, who were the three people who broke out of this Containment place?" Ron asked.

Wednesday shrugged. "The Hulk -no surprise, there. Canadian Special Forces guy called Logan, and a doctor. The last two were part of a Tiger Team testing security for UNIT."

"_A_ doctor?" Harry asked. "Or _the_ Doctor?"

Wednesday frowned. "Doctor _who_?" She asked. Harry just grinned and shook his head.

"One thing, Special Agent Addams," Nick asked, "how did you know to be at my house last night?"

"We didn't, specifically." Wednesday admitted. "But we guessed she'd find out about you sooner or later. So we put a watch on your home, the precinct house and that trailer of yours, as well as Rosalees' shop and Monroes' house.

"We saw her go into the station and our agent followed her, saw her put that Imperius on your colleague to call up your file. I was assigned to watch your home, Nick, and as soon as I got the call I went in, put Juliet to sleep and took a strand of her hair. We always carry a flask of Polyjuice Potion on stakeout, in case we're seen and have to change appearance.

"All I had to do then was act shocked and scared when dear Dolores arrived. Wouldn't have done for her to see me, we've had dealings before. But she strung out the negotiations a little too long, so I had to disarm her. Fortunately, Ron here is as quick on the wand as his Mom ever was!"

"When did you have dealings with Umbridge?" Harry wanted to know.

Wednesday was purring again as she said. "While you were chasing Horcruxes, _mon cher_. I could tell you all about it. Over dinner, perhaps?"

"Yeah, we could do that." Harry allowed. "Ginny can cook – hope you like steak and kidney pie -and you can tell us both all about it."

Wednesday gave him a little _moue _of mock disappointment, then turned brisk again.

"OK, Nick, this is your FBS 'Muggle Consultant' ID badge. It'll get you into this and any other FBS office in the country. There's also a number to call ahead if you can so we can get someone to escort you in -the actual entrances can be tricky to find. We'll keep you posted on anything we think you should know about, and I'll ask you to return the favour. Especially if it involves Hags.

"One more thing. The Hag potion that blanked Juliets' memory of you was a pretty crude and brutal one. We don't have anything to patch her up right now – if we'd known sooner... But if anything changes, let us know and we'll see what we can do. We owe you that at least.

"Harry, we have an Owl for you. It was posted in Virginia and addressed to you at the Ministry. Luckily, the guys in International Sorting realised you were over here before it got put on the albatross. Here you go.

"Now I've got a lot of parchment-work to finish up, so I suggest you guys go and get lunch!"

They were back at the diner where Nick had first seen Ron and Harry, Nick was complaining.

"I'd just gotten used to being a Grimm, and now the world just expanded on me again! How much crazier can things get!" He shook his head. "Well, I guess this kind of thing won't happen too often."

"Wouldn't take any bets on that, mate!" Ron told him. "Harry is what you'd call the 'go-to guy' for this kind of cross-world stuff, these days."

Nick looked at Harry, who shrugged. "It wasn't intentional, it just sort of happened. I know people, useful people." He grinned. "You're in my toolbox now. On the upside, remember that I'm in yours, too. If you ever need a little magical help, here's my card."

He slid it across the table. Nick noted that it was laminated, and that it had Harrys' name, the word 'Consultant', a UK phone number, and an email address. He flipped it over. On the back was the legend 'Gryffindor One'. He looked up at Harry.

"It's a club with fringe benefits." Harry told him. "You call any Stark office and say 'Gryffindor One' and they'll put you straight through to Tony Stark. Same goes for the New York CSI team, the BAU and Ziva David at NCIS. It'll get you into any UNIT or SHIELD facility below a certain clearance level, as well.

"Keep that card handy, Nick. There's a charm on it that makes it chime and vibrate if it comes within five metres of another card like it. If the person who has that card needs help, I'd appreciate it if you'd help them. By the same token, I'd expect them to help you if you needed it."

There wasn't really much else. They were all still tired, so the talk drifted onto more general subjects. Nick, as much as Hank, was interested in England: "We owe a lot of our institutions, the way we think, and our language to your country." He pointed out. "That was a long time ago, but some of us are still fascinated by your 'green and pleasant land'."

Finally, they all parted ways, with promises to keep in touch and admonishments to be careful about letting things slip.

Nick headed back to the precinct house, Rosalee to her shop and Monroe to the clock repair he'd been neglecting. Harry and Ron went to their hotel, packed their things and checked out, dropped off their hire-car and then found a quiet spot where they wouldn't be seen or heard.

"Back home?" Ron asked.

Harry shook his head. "Washington first. I promised to drop in on Ziva when we were done, remember? Also, you owe Penelope dinner, I think -she won't _eat_ you, Ron! I called this morning to let Mac know we'd got Umbridge. I'll email him all the details later.

"Then you can get off home, but I've got an errand. Look at this!"

He handed Ron the letter Wednesday had given him that morning. It was on paper, not parchment. A sheet of hotel notepaper from the Hotel Raleigh in Richmond, Virginia. It was covered with a firm, rather old-fashioned, copperplate script:

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_I hope you will excuse this unsolicited message, but the matter is one of importance, and I have never been a man to shrink from a direct approach._

_I have news and a manuscript to impart which will be of some interest to you. Both concern a mutual acquaintance who, for now, I will only refer to as AD._

_I do understand that your time is valuable and shall ask for no more than an hour of it. I am currently occupying the penthouse suite of this hotel and will remain here for a further fortnight. If I do not receive a reply or a visit from you in that time, I shall conclude that the matter is no longer of interest to you. I hope this is not the case, as AD always spoke very highly of you._

_You may ask for me at the reception desk. The staff have been told to expect you and will send you up directly._

_I am, sir, yours sincerely,_

_Captain John Carter._

"I think," Harry said, "we can both guess who AD is, or was. The old man had more than a few tricks up his sleeve, so I can't help being curious."

Ron shrugged. "Should be a story in it, anyway!" He allowed.

END

**Authors' Notes**

First off, thanks and acknowledgements to **Model Builder** for background information on the North American Federal Bureau of Sorcery, and in particular, Special Agent Wednesday Addams.

Just a few words here and there. Those familiar with my other work may be wondering what became of the earlier story arcs established in _Xchange Students, Labyrinth of Amagor_ and _Hellfire in New York_. That AU was established shortly after the publication of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. Afterwards, I didn't write for some time and in between, _Deathly Hallows_ got published, overtaking those early arcs.

When I came back to the field, I decided to widen my cast and slightly darken my universe. Beginning with the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was an obvious step. Making Mr Potter a member of that League was also obvious, as was the inclusion of Dante Sparda and the Doctor, from that point on, the rest of the League 'volunteered', as it were. In particular, I felt that the talents of Ziva David made her considerably more useful than my original choice, Lady Lara Croft.

But how to establish my world in a universe crawling with superheroes, Mutants and meta-humans? Once one allowed the vastly over-populated Marvleverse full rein, there would be little or no need for anyone else. The introduction of the Doctor gave me what I needed. By making the Dalek invasion of 2008 part of my 'history', I could eliminate most of the superhumans at a blow!

Few if any Marvel characters would fail to rise to the occasion, even if it meant fighting alongside old enemies. Equally, few if any would or could be a match for the ruthless, super-intelligent, adaptable and numerous Daleks. This left me with a 'hard-core' of usable Marvel characters, those who would have constituted too great a challenge even for the Daleks, or who might have had legitimate reasons for being elsewhere at the time: Thor, Dr Strange, Iron Man, Magneto, Storm, Ben Grimm, the Silver Surfer, Colossus, Wolverine and, of course, the Hulk are some of these. The Hellfire Club, Alpha Flight, the majority of the X-Men, most of the 'lesser' Avengers, Spider-Man, Daredevil and others would have been exterminated. The jury is still out on Juggernaut and Mystique, though most of the rest of the Brotherhood would have been killed. Thus much for the superheroes.

The wizard world, as elsewhere indicated, was a closed book to the Daleks, but even so, enough wizards were killed to give the magical authorities pause. The following years' 456 Incident (_Torchwood: Children of Earth_), would have involved wizard as well as Muggle children. Faced with a new world that made wizards as vulnerable to alien attack as Muggles, it seemed logical that the White Council -as the worlds' over-arching wizard authority – would approach the newly-reconstituted UNIT, under Kate Stewart, daughter of the much-missed Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, to conclude a Memorandum of Understanding. This would allow for co-operation where necessary between wizard authorities and Muggle organisations such as MI7 (under Sir John Steed) and SHIELD (now led by Colonel Steve Rogers), whilst conserving wizard autonomy and secrecy.

The Slayers – I exterminated the lot of them! Why? Because for seven years, while my daughter was a teen, my Friday evenings were rendered hideous by _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_, a poorly-conceived, badly-written and worse-acted farrago that set my teeth on edge as only one TV programme had before, and only _Greys' Anatomy_ has since! It was an act of vengeance, of retribution, of simple justice! The other teeth-edger? Well, let me just say that the first place in New York visited by a more than usually irritable Dalek was Central Perk!

I won't say much more for now, but I hope people like my older, more professional, harder-edged Harry. But he's not my only thread. There is the whole of the Whoverse. There is the 24th Century and what wizards might do now they have rejoined the human race. And there is Captain Titus, TimeLord Space Marine. I have a lot of characters and scenarios to play with, and I intend to have fun. Join me?


End file.
